Justice
by Liz Night
Summary: A year after Sherlock died, John meets a journalist who wants to redeem Sherlock's name. He might have actually met the only journalist he's ever liked in Mary Morstan. Slow building Johnlock. Part One-Finished. Part Two-WIP.
1. Chapter 1

This was the new project I'd spoken briefly about when I finished This is War. It's two parts and the first part is finished. The second, though, is not, though I believe it will be shorter and posted as a sequel. The lovely isolde-blue has graciously brit-picked this for me and I owe her my never ending gratitude. I hope all of you like this!

Also, this would have come out much, much later if it had not been for my wonderful family and friends, both online and in real life. So, for those who are actually on this site, thank you so, so much alienated-alien and Kasek, and for all the others who will probably never even see this. My life would not be complete if I had not met all of you.

Disclaimer: Me own Sherlock in any form? Two words. I. Wish.

* * *

Justice.

Prologue.

The first article had been released mere hours after Sherlock Holmes jumped from the roof of St. Bart's. John hadn't seen that article, or any of the others that followed, until nearly a fortnight later.

Harry had been tiptoeing around him since he'd shown up on her doorstep that terrible day. He'd finally had enough and they had argued as harshly as they had used to, before John had picked up his jacket and walked out. He trod through London, trying to find the smallest amount of peace. The peace he sought for escaped him.

He'd lost track of time, but he knew he'd been walking for hours, when he stopped by a newsagent's to catch his breath. John looked up from his shoes and nearly choked.

Staring back at him was a picture of his late best friend. It was on that day's copy of The Sun. Just seeing it made John begin to feel ill. The last article he'd seen in The Sun about Sherlock had been shortly before his death.

The picture itself was a photo of Sherlock from one of the press events that had taken place only a month before on the front page. It wasn't one of his best. The deceased man looked too sharp and almost sinister. John had no doubt that the man had been irritated by the tedious proceedings at that time. Printed next to him was the headline 'Famed Detective More Than Just a Fraud.'

John took the paper from the rack and read.

'_Famed Detective More Than Just a Fraud. By: Kitty Riley_. (John almost growled when he saw that woman's name.) _Over the past several months the man Sherlock Holmes has made the headlines many times for solving crimes and mysteries that seemed impossible. Sources have already come to light claiming that the amateur detective had arranged the crimes that he would later resolve. Another source has recently made contact and given details of what had happened the day Mr Holmes committed suicide. Richard Brook, the actor whom Mr Holmes hired to play Moriarty, was found on the same roof he'd jumped from, killed by a fatal gunshot wound. It does not take a supposed "consulting detective" to make the leap of logic that a man willing to take the actions he did would kill the one responsible for ruining his carefully constructed reputation—"_

John shoved the paper back into the rack, not caring that he ripped part of the rubbish. He strode away to return to Harry's flat, where he was staying until he could find a flat of his own. One that didn't hold as many bittersweet memories that 221B did.

When he had travelled a short way, John took a deep breath. No matter what people said, John Watson would always believe that Sherlock Holmes was not a fraud. Even when the man himself admitted that he had lied to him all along. No, Sherlock had only ever spoken one lie to him and that was the one he'd uttered whilst standing on the edge of a roof, looking down at his best friend.

* * *

And that is the first post. I hope it's piqued your interest and don't forget to review! I'd like to know if there's interest in this story. Updates should be every two weeks until till all the chapters have been typed and edited, which will then change to every week. Sorry that this first chapter is so short.


	2. Chapter 2

I decided to break my rule this once. I have two completed chapters left after this, so it will go to the every other week thing for sure after this. I couldn't resist just giving out a bit more!

* * *

Justice.

Chapter One.

Although Mrs Hudson had called him only four days before, informing him that there had been someone asking after him, John never expected the receptionist at the surgery to tell him that there was a woman waiting outside the examination room he would be using that day.

He'd only just arrived when the mousy-haired receptionist approached him. He had to swallow when his first impression of her was that, although she was recently married, she found him attractive, _obviously_. Eight months after Sherlock's death and he still kept the habits he'd picked up from him.

"Dr Watson," the receptionist said, "a woman came in earlier asking to speak with you. She said that she had personal business to discuss. I told her that you weren't in yet, and she asked to wait for you till you were."

"Oh, yes, thank you," John replied, at a loss. He could think of very little business he had to discuss with anyone that was _personal._ He took a step toward the doors that led to all the exam rooms before standing still once more. He turned to face the woman who hadn't yet moved. "Did she by any chance mention her name?"

"Yes, Doctor," the receptionist nodded. "I believe she said Mary Morstan."

John nodded his thanks before walking away. He couldn't recall anyone by that name. He turned the corner and saw a petite woman standing in the hall by the room he would be using that day.

"Ms Morstan?" he asked.

The woman was standing by the window, looking outside. At the sound of his voice, she turned to face him. Her blond hair was pulled into a loose bun, away from her face. She wore a black skirt and pale blue dress shirt. She held her dark coat in her arms along with a large shoulder bag. John absently noticed that her hair style and her clothes gave her a professional appearance.

"Hello, Dr Watson," she responded and stepped away from the window and towards him. "I'm Mary Morstan, as you already know. I'm sorry to drop in so unexpectedly, but I tried to contact you a few days ago. I spoke to your former landlady, I believe."

"Yes," John admitted, opening the door and gesturing for her to take a seat as he took off his coat and hung it on the coat stand. He sat down as well. "She mentioned somebody asking after me. She didn't say why, though."

"Oh, yes," Ms Morstan nodded. "I thought it best to keep this as quiet as possible at this point. Dr Watson, I work as a journalist. Now, before you throw me out, I want to say that I detest the drivel my colleagues have written about you and Mr Holmes. I _am_ here for business, but I don't want to do a woeful, common piece about how those close to him are coping with his death."

"Then what, Ms Morstan, are you here to ask me about?" John sighed, wearily. He _hated_ dealing with nosy journalists.

She glanced down at her lap before looking back up. Eyes steadily staring into his, she replied.

"I don't want Mr Holmes to be remembered as a fraud, as he is now. I want to bring him the justice he deserved."

John stared at the woman sitting in front of him. Her jaw was set and she looked ready to argue her case. "And how do you expect to do this?"

She relaxed fractionally. "How else, Dr Watson? By using the same medium that one of," her expression morphed to one of disgust, "my _colleagues_ used to destroy his reputation. And in the same paper, as well."

John glanced down at the surface of his desk. "This seems like a personal vendetta against Kitty Riley, not an attempt to reveal the truth."

"Doctor, I have many reasons for this article," Ms Morstan admitted. "Yes, I've taken a personal affront to her, but most likely not for the reasons you believe. She did not take my job or anything of mine, really. I've actually never met her, nor would I like to. She violated the fundaments of journalism so that she could have her 'big break' with that story. She didn't do her own research, or did not do it well. Furthermore, she ruined a man's life which, ultimately, led to his death.

"But you have to believe me when I say I want justice more than anything," she said, voice firm. "You and Mr Holmes helped many people. It is impossible that he arranged many of those crimes that the two of you solved."

"And what if I told you that he'd told me himself that he was a fake?" John asked and watched her closely for her reaction.

She thought only a moment before responding. "I would ask you what the circumstances of this confession were."

John stared at her for several minutes, not speaking. Finally, he cleared his throat and shifted in his seat.

"And what would happen if I agreed to help you?"

"At the very least I'd interview you," she replied. "I don't know if there would be anything else. Your level of involvement would be completely up to you."

He nodded. "I want to be involved. With as much as possible."

Ms Morstan stood and reached her hand across the desk for him to shake, which he did. "Thank you, Doc—"

They were interrupted by the high pitched ringing of a phone. Ms Morstan frowned.

"Do you mind if I take this?" she asked, as she dug her mobile out of her pocket.

"No, go ahead," John nodded and, opening the surgery's computer on the desk, began the task of logging in.

"Hello? ...What? … Are you sure? ... Okay, I'm on my way. Tell him I'll be there soon," Ms Morstan spoke into the mobile as John attempted not to listen in. It was very good that she couldn't see the screen on the laptop and the password he'd mistyped twice already.

John saw her take the phone from her ear and looked up.

"I'm sorry. I'd planned to discuss more, but I'm needed elsewhere," Ms Morstan said as she stood and dipped a hand into her coat pocket. She pulled it back with a card in her hand. She handed it to him as he stood. "This is my card. If you need to get into contact with me feel free to call. Otherwise, I'll be in touch soon."

"Yes," John muttered absently as his eyes drifted across the script on the card.

"Thank you again, Dr Watson," she said.

"You can call me—" he began to say, but she was already gone.

* * *

And that's the first chapter to Justice. I hope all of you have enjoyed these first few glimpses and want to keep reading. Thank you for reading and you'll hear from me again in two weeks!


	3. Chapter 3

Well, I almost forgot completely about this today, but I managed not to! It's one of the few bright points I've had in this day! Don't forget to leave a review or something to make it even better!

* * *

Justice.

Chapter Two.

John wearily unlocked the door to his flat. As he shut the door behind him, he leaned his forehead against the hard wood. Some days were harder than others and it hadn't been one of his best. He slowly pushed all the breath from his lungs before he inhaled just as slowly. He leaned back, shrugging out of his jacket and placing it on the hook beside the door. It took only a few minutes to situate himself in his armchair with a glass of whiskey in hand.

The building was quiet and he still was not used to it after living with Sherlock on Baker Street. But he couldn't go back there. Not with the memories that threatened to break him.

He switched the telly on, channel flipping till he landed on a half-wit comedy. He sipped from his glass, savouring the burn as it went down.

He was interrupted by his phone ringing in his pocket. He dug the phone out and looked at the screen. _Mary Morstan_. He hesitantly answered.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Dr Watson," the woman on the line said. "I hope you'll forgive me for leaving so suddenly earlier today."

John cleared his throat. "Oh, it's fi-okay," he quickly corrected himself. There were certain words and phrases he could not bring himself to say without thinking of his old friend. "How'd you get my number?"

Ms Morstan laughed nervously. "I hope you don't mind. I took one of your cards from the receptionist at the surgery."

"Oh," John blinked up at the ceiling. "That should have been completely obvious."

The woman laughed. "Well, I did rather blindside you earlier today. Now, as for why I was calling, I thought we could have our interview tomorrow at a place I know near the Russell Square Gardens."

John absently nodded. "Yes, that sounds good."

They quickly confirmed where in the park and when they would meet. John half-heartedly agreed to the terms she set. The Gardens joined Bart's on a long list of places John preferred not to go near. It was where his path had taken the turn that had brought him to Sherlock.

"Are you listening?"

John jerked himself from his reverie. "I'm sorry. I got lost for a moment there. What did you say?"

"It's okay," Ms Morstan replied. "I was saying that I was sorry for being short, but it's getting late and I have a few more things to do before the night is over."

"Of course," John nodded. "Then I will see you tomorrow, Ms Morstan."

"Please," she said. "Call me Mary."

"As long as you call me John," he replied.

* * *

The midday air was bitingly cold. John pulled his coat tighter around his chest as he walked through the park, though little good it seemed to do. Few people were there and those that were walked briskly past him, huddled in their own coats.

He glanced up to scan for Mary before looking back down, hiding his chin in his collar. He briefly thought that it would be best to invest in a scarf soon. Very soon. He glanced up once more and finally recognized her as the woman sitting on a bench several yards in front of him.

Instead of the professional clothes that he'd expected her to wear, she was wrapped tightly in a thick grey pea coat. Her hat, scarf, and gloves were a deep violet. The collar of a light coloured turtleneck jumper peeked out from under the scarf. Her dark wool trousers were tucked into boots. Function over style, John idly thought. The soldier in him had to tip his hat to her.

She looked up from eyeing her gloves and saw him approaching her.

"Dr Watson," she greeted as she stood. "I know a quiet café close to here that we can speak in."

John nodded and they set off together quietly. Finally, John broke the silence.

"Why did you have us meet here?"

She glanced up at him and smiled. "For several reasons. One being that we could see if anyone was following either of us," she noticed his surprised glance down at her. "I'm not the only one who wants to know your story, John. Journalists…we have a habit of popping up at the worst time and when we're least expected. It's a harsh, competitive career. Now, as to the second reason…Well, I enjoy how quiet it is here in the winter. It's so unlike the rest of London."

"And the other reasons?" he asked when it seemed that she would not continue.

Mary shrugged. "Few of the others are worth mentioning."

She guided them out of the park and to a small, quiet shop, nestled between a chemist's and an Off-Licence. The barista at the counter was a university student, judging by the textbook resting in front of where she absently wiped the counter top. They gave their order and were handed their hot drinks as they undid their coats and removed their gloves.

The café was warm and John found himself beginning to get uncomfortable as they found a table. He draped his coat on the back of his chair before sitting down. It was surprisingly not busy for it being such a glacial day. The table that he and Mary were seated at was a comfortable distance from any other patrons. Their conversations drifted over as murmurs and whispers.

Mary took a thick notebook and pen from the bag she had been carrying. She opened it to a clean page and uncapped her pen. "I hope you don't mind if I take notes."

"I expected it," John said. "But why don't you use a dictaphone? Surely it would be more convenient."

Mary nodded. "It would, but it makes the people being interviewed nervous a lot of times. I prefer to rely on taking down notes. You'd be surprised how many people forget it's there at all."

John shrugged, uncomfortably. "I don't know how good I will be at this. My last therapist thought I was awful."

"Well, I'm not judging you," she replied. "I'm just writing facts and questions as they come along. If you like, you can look over them when we're done."

John nodded absently.

"Okay," Mary said after she tested her pen against the paper. "Start wherever you like."

John was at a loss as to how to begin. He sipped at his coffee while he thought. There had been so much happening in the days that had led up to Sherlock's death. He finally decided to think of the interview as one of his old blog posts.

"We were on a case. It wasn't fully reported on, because only hours after it was solved we became fugitives. The children of the ambassador to the United States were kidnapped. He personally requested that Sherlock aid the yard in the search. It was a set up from the start.

"Jim Moriarty kept sending packages to Sherlock. You see," John paused in the narrative, "the kidnapping was made to resemble the story of Hansel and Gretel. We found the kids in an abandoned factory. The boy needed medical care, but the police were able to interview the little girl. When they finally allowed us in, she started screaming as soon as she saw Sherlock," John paused once more, clearing his throat and taking a sip.

"Sherlock…it affected him. That little girl was _terrified_ of him and…I don't think he could understand at first. Then he seemed to change. I disregarded it as his reaction to the girl. He was rude and sulky and—I know he was always like that. I mean, he was Sherlock Holmes for God's sake, but it was different. I should have noticed it sooner," he said, rubbing a hand across his face. "He was distancing himself from the rest of us."

"John," Mary interrupted. "All these events happened so quickly…You didn't have time to stop and consider everything. You did the best you could at the time."

John nodded, but couldn't help the regret and guilt that welled in his belly. "I know, but I was his best friend and a doctor."

Mary gave him a sympathetic smile and John breathed in deeply before continuing his tale.

"We had to take different cabs back to Baker Street, because…Sherlock had to think and didn't want any distractions. He got like that a lot," Mary's snort of laughter helped him continue. "When I reached Baker Street, Sherlock was standing on the curb and a man had just been shot after helping him. The man…We were surrounded. Long before the kidnapping case, several assassins settled in Baker Street, watching us. They were buyers for the code that Moriarty had used to hack the systems at the Tower of London, Pentonville Prison and The Bank of England. Evidently, he left it at our flat after his trial.

"We went back to the flat and it wasn't long before D.I. Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan came up. They wanted to bring Sherlock in for questioning. When he refused to go with him, they had to go back for a warrant. Lestrade warned us before they left the Yard."

"He told me about that when I interviewed him," Mary interrupted. "He just asked that most of his involvement remain anonymous, so that there are no negative repercussions at his work."

John nodded. "That would be for the best, most likely."

"Please continue."

John nodded and looked into the depths of his cup. "Most of the police force came back to arrest him. He went without a fight, even though I know several of the officers were rough with him," John winced at what was coming up next, but he knew he had to tell her. "The Chief Superintendent came up to our flat and…made a few unsavoury comments about Sherlock. I…lost my temper. They arrested me, too."

"Wait, wait, wait," Mary said, eyes large. "You _hit_ the Chief Superintendent?"

John nodded, looking down in shame.

"Oh, my God," she breathed. "I think you might just be my hero. That man is such a complete wanker!"

John jerked his head up, staring at her. "You know him?"

Mary nodded. "I've been sent to the Yard to try to get access to reports. He blocked most of my attempts, until I started going through unofficial channels, but, please, continue."

John nodded, marvelling over the fact that they felt mutual disdain for the same man. "They handcuffed us together, but before they could put us in the back of the van, Sherlock was able to take a gun and we ran.

"It was then that we discovered Moriarty's code. The Yard was combing London searching for us, so we hid in Kitty Riley's flat, waiting for her to return," John's frown turned to a grimace. "She was working with 'Richard Brook,' or Moriarty. She had a whole file of evidence for his identity. I don't know how he did that, but he nearly fooled us all.

John shifted uncomfortably. "The reason that their story was so easy to swallow for most people was because it was one large lie hidden in truth. Moriarty was apprehended by the government, where he was able to learn about Sherlock's entire life."

"How'd that come about?"

John looked down at where her pen was poised over her paper. She had already flipped a few pages since the interview had begun. "You shouldn't write anything about what I'm about to tell you. I probably shouldn't even tell you. Sherlock's older brother works in the government. He said that the only way he could get Moriarty to talk at all was to tell him about Sherlock. Obviously, that backfired."

"After we left Ms Riley's, he went to Bart's and I confronted his brother. When he confessed to what he'd done, I left and followed Sherlock," John wet his lips. "He seemed more restless than usual, playing with a ball for hours. We were there that entire time," he set his cup on the table in front of him and leaned forward, head in his hands. "I got a call. I thought it was one of our neighbours telling us that Mrs Hudson had been shot and was dying. Sherlock and I fought. I called him a machine… And then I left.

"When I got to Baker Street, Mrs Hudson was fine and didn't know a thing about the call. It was a trick. I took a cab back to Bart's, but it was too late. Sherlock was standing on the edge."

"Do you need a moment, John?" she made him pause.

He shook his head. "I…I need to finish this." John sat up once more and stared past her left ear and went back to the story. He put his trembling left hand on the table beside his cup.

"I got out of the cab and was running to the building when he rang me. He told me to turn around and made me stop in the street. He said he couldn't come down and that the call would have to be his note," his throat constricted on the last word. He cleared it, but his voice was still rough when he continued. "He said that they'd been right and he'd been acting all along. I don't know how he expected me to believe that. I'd only ever heard him nearly that emotional a few times before and it had never been like that. He was so upset. I could hear it in his voice. He wouldn't let me move from that spot. And then…he said goodbye, tossed his phone…and jumped.

"I ran towards him, but a cyclist hit me and I fell. There were people all around him by the time I got there. It was obvious that he was gone, but…I couldn't accept it like that. I checked his pulse and there was nothing," John closed his eyes and bit his lip.

A small hand was placed over his and squeezed gently. "I need to ask John, you said he threw his phone? Did you see where it landed?"

John nodded. "On the roof near him. The Yard should have found it."

"One moment," Mary said quickly and took her phone out. She dialled a number, turned it on speaker, and placed it on the table between them.

"Lestrade speaking," the man's voice came.

"Detective Inspector," Mary started. "This is Mary Morstan. Can you speak freely right now?"

"Not quite," the man replied.

"This shouldn't take long," Mary nodded to herself. "I just need to know if there was a phone in the evidence you spoke to me about the other day."

"No, there wasn't," Lestrade said. "Why?"

Mary glanced up at John. "We might have just hit a break."

"Let me know if it pans out," Lestrade said, "but I have to go to a meeting now."

"Of course, Detective Inspector," Mary replied. "We'll speak again soon."

She reached to her phone and disconnected the call and sat back, glancing at her notes, pen tapping near her lower lip. "Why wouldn't they find his phone?" she muttered.

"I was the only eye witness," John said with dawning realization. "And I wasn't thinking straight. I never told them about the phone so they'd never looked for it."

Mary glanced up at him and nodded. She set the pen beside her notebook and looked at the time on her phone. "Just in time," she muttered as she began to put her materials back in her bag. "Thank you, John, for your time. I'd like to meet with you again two days from now if it's possible."

John nodded. "Here, again?"

Mary paused. "No," she said slowly. "If you're up to it, I'd like to go to Bart's."

John froze. He'd not returned to the hospital since Sherlock's jump. He hadn't been able to even come closer to the building than the park.

"John."

Mary's voice broke him from his thoughts. He blinked and focused on her. "What?"

"Will it be alright?"

John paused before answering. On the one hand, who knew how much this might harm his mental health. But, on the other, this would be for Sherlock. Sherlock, who had said John was his only friend. Sherlock, who valued his intellect above almost everything else. Sherlock, who was no longer able to clear his own name. Before he knew it, he found himself nodding.

"Okay," Mary nodded as well. "Well, I must be off. I'll meet you at Bart's."

"Yes," John nodded and shook her hand before they both stood.

"John," she said as she took her coat from the back of her seat. "If you ever need to, you can call me to talk. Don't worry about the time or even after the article's published. I'm here to listen with an open mind."

"Thank you," John replied, uncomfortable.

Mary nodded and put her coat on and picked up her bag before she left.

John slowly pushed his arms into the sleeves of his coat. He put his cup on the counter for the barista to take up and pulled his coat tightly around his body before stepping outside. The blast of cold air shocked him out of his fog.

He took a cab to the surgery, managing to get there nearly a half-hour early for his shift. Which was perfect for what he needed to do. John knew he wouldn't be able to go to work after seeing the hospital he'd trained at before the military. Sherlock had ruined that for him by intentionally falling to his death.


	4. Chapter 4

I've gone back and seperated all my notes from the story. It's just one of the things that bugs me for no reason. And many thanks to Sarah for reviewing to every chapter! This was the only way I could reply to you!

* * *

Justice.

Chapter Three.

John had the cabby drop him off a few streets away from Bart's. He looked down the street towards where he would soon have to go. People passed him as he stood still on the pavement. A child, still too young to attend school, held her mother's hand as they walked by him. She smiled and waved up to him as she was pulled away.

As he observed the pedestrians surrounding him, a man in a suit knocked into him, sending him stumbling. John looked back, but the man was already gone without a word. John took the first step, then the next. Each step became easier than the one before it. He was surprised when he turned a corner and Bart's stood in front of him.

He paused, staring up at the building that often haunted his dreams. It looked much the same as before, including a dark figure near the edge of the roof.

John's blood turned to ice in his veins as he darted from where he stood, across the street and into the hospital. He wasn't aware of the horns or shouts that followed him. He sprinted up the stairs and pushed past people till he finally reached the top. He pushed the door open, panting.

"You don't…have to…do this," he wheezed, ashamed at how out of shape he was.

Mary turned to face him and took a step towards him. "John, did you think I was about to jump?"

He leaned forward, hands on his trembling knees, and nodded, gasping for breath.

"I'm sorry," she said and turned back to the view, but stayed farther away from the edge. "I got here early and came up. I was just thinking about the cityscape. Did you know they're building a fence around the edge of the building in memory of Mr Holmes?"

John shook his head as he stood straight once more and took the shaky step to stand beside her. "It was one of his last sights," he said softly. "There should have been a fence there already. Though I know it wouldn't have stopped him."

She glanced at him and raised her gloved hand to his arm, squeezing it once.

"He was standing there," John said, pointing to the edge.

Mary nodded and stepped once more towards the edge. She stopped a few feet from the drop, looking down at the gravel. "John," she said, only a few moments after she'd started looking. She bent down as he walked to her. In her gloved hand was Sherlock's phone.

John blinked. Mary stood up straight and took his hand, folding it around the mobile.

"It may still work if you dry it out," Mary told him. "Uncooked rice works wonders."

John nodded absently. Mary took him by the elbow and led him to the stairs. John froze when he saw a fading stain on the concrete. Moriarty.

Mary looked at him, then down at the blood stain. "They found him several hours after. He'd shot himself. There was no way it could have been Sherlock."

"How do you know?"

"I saw the report," she said simply. "There were witnesses who said they heard only one shot and he had powder burns on his fingers."

John shook himself and strode over to the stairs, Mary following. He spun back, Sherlock's mobile gripped tightly in his hand. His eyes felt wet and his throat tight from the frustration that filled him. Mary stumbled into him.

"Why?" John asked, voice rough. "Why are you trying to help? Don't you know that it's over? Moriarty won!"

"No, he didn't," Mary replied, jaw firm and eyes hard. "There are still people who believe, but they don't have a voice to stand with them. We know he didn't arrange the crimes he solved!"

"We?" he caught the word and threw it back at her. "What'd he do to help you? Proved you didn't plagiarise? Find a missing family member?"

"He saved my life and my son's!" she shouted. John's mouth snapped shut and Mary looked away. She spoke, staring at the construction materials gathered under a tarpaulin. "Almost two years ago, both you and Sherlock were asked to aid in the investigation of the murder of George Goode. It was not long before the two of you found my ex-husband and he was arrested. As he was being led away, Sherlock mentioned that he was also abusing me. The government took my son and me in before the trial and whilst I testified.

"As soon as the trial was over my son and I went to India to be with my parents. When we returned to London, Sherlock had been dead for several months."

Mary looked up at him stubbornly. "I never got to thank him in any way. I owe him my life and my son's, so I'm going to try to un-tarnish his reputation if it's the last thing I do."

They stood, staring at one another. John finally looked away.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't know. I don't even remember your case."

Mary shook her head. "I didn't think you would. It wasn't very important to most people and was not very interesting by Mr Holmes' standards."

"So, uh, what's your son's name?" John finally asked when the silence got to be too much.

"Joseph," Mary said, smiling. "We both changed out surnames to my maiden name after the divorce went through. He's six. That call I got the day we met? That was his school. He was in a fight and I had to pick him up. Then, when I left our next meeting, I had to pick him up from his babysitter. He's a good boy."

John nodded, ashamed of his loss of composure.

"Why don't we go back downstairs?" Mary asked. "It's so cold up here."

He nodded once more and walked beside her as they took the stairs.

"I'm sorry."

Mary shook her head. "It's okay. All this—I know I can't understand just how hard it is for you to re-experience and actually see everything. I'm grateful that you didn't slam the door in my face the first time we met."

One side of John's mouth quirked up. "Thank you. I don't think I could have spoken to any other journalist."

* * *

And that's it for another two weeks. The next time I post a chapter will be my final day of classes for this term! So, if the notes that day sound a little brain dead, that's because of a long exam!


	5. Chapter 5

Justice.

Chapter Four.

John and Mary were still walking down the stairs of Bart's when her phone began to vibrate in her pocket.

"Oh, God!" Mary muttered. "Do you mind if I answer this?"

"Go ahead," John replied, as she took her phone from her pocket.

"Hello, Mary speaking," she answered. She paused as the other person spoke. "What happened?" her eyes widened. "Okay, okay. I'm on my way. Tell him I won't be long," she said and ended the call. She looked up at John as they continued down the stairs.

"That was my son's school. He's sick so I need to go pick him up," she said. "I hate to leave you so quickly again, but—"

"Could I go with you?" John blinked as he heard the words leave his mouth. He hadn't meant to say them. He looked down at Mary and caught a glimpse of fear in her eyes. But the tension in her face and body quickly melted away, leaving John to wonder if it had ever really been there. "I can take a look at Joseph and save you sometime at a surgery."

Mary bit her lip and nodded. "I'd appreciate it. Jo pitches a fit every time we go to the doctors."

"He won't be the worst patient I've ever had. Sherlock," John paused as his throat closed. "Sherlock would have to be unconscious and strapped down to agree to go to a hospital. He always said that there was nothing that they could do that I couldn't."

Mary smiled. "We might be making another monster then."

They continued down the stairs and hailed a cab. John looked back at the building. He still did not want to see its walls again, but he knew it would become easier with time.

At first John did not realize which direction they were going. Then the buildings they passed became very familiar.

"Are we near Baker Street?"

Mary looked up at him, concerned and sympathetic. "Jo goes to Hampden Gurney Primary, so yes, but we won't go on it."

"Why'd you choose that school?" John asked, trying to distract himself.

"Jo liked it," Mary replied. "I picked three schools and let him choose from them."

The cab soon came to rest in front of the school. Mary asked John to wait with the cabbie as she went inside. John examined the outside of the building as he waited. The front entrance of the school was along a curved wall of windows that stood four stories high. He could see children and teachers walking through the halls in the floor above the door that Mary went through.

She returned shortly, holding a young boy's hand. The boy, Joseph, didn't have his mother's light hair, but dark curls that framed his round cheeks. He walked slowly, hand clenching at the red jumper over his stomach. Mary opened the door for him and Jo slid across the seat to sit beside John.

The boy was pale and sweating. His bottom lip trembled as his eyes welled.

"Hello," John said, quietly. "I'm John."

The boy opened his mouth, but the cabbie drowned him out.

"I'm not taking him if he's going to puke in my backseat!"

Jo and John both glanced up at Mary. The woman's eyes flashed. "Yes, you will," she said icily. "We aren't going far. If he does throw up I'll pay you extra."

John felt Jo's head and glanced at Mary. "How far away do you live?"

Mary bit her lip. "Several minutes and we're going to hit traffic on the way."

John looked back down at the child between them. "Is Baker Street closer?" he ground out.

Mary frowned. "Yes," she said slowly, "but we don't need to go there. It's okay."

John shook his head as he turned to the cabbie. "221 Baker Street, please."

John turned back to Jo and distracted himself by seeing to the boy. He had a fever and his stomach was very upset. He didn't think there was too much to worry about, but it would be best to get him out of the cab and comfortable very soon.

"We're here," Mary said quietly as she opened the door.

John glanced around and saw Baker Street. "Can you go tell Mrs Hudson we're here?" Mary nodded and walked away.

"Jo, do you mind if I pick you up?" John asked him.

Jo's face scrunched up and a tear slid down his cheek. "But what if I get sick?"

John smiled. "I'm a doctor. It wouldn't be the first time."

Jo nodded and John carefully took the boy up in his arms and stepped out of the cab. Mary came back and paid the driver as John carried Jo to the door that Mrs Hudson held open.

"Oh, the poor dear," she said as they passed.

"Have you cleaned the old flat recently, Mrs Hudson?" he asked as Mary joined them.

The older woman wrung her hands. "No," she said quietly shaking her head. "I haven't been able to go up there for months."

"It's okay, Mrs Hudson," he said as he started up the stairs, Mary following.

John lay Jo down in Sherlock's old bed. He didn't allow himself to look around as he went to the bathroom to get a thermometer. A fine layer of dust covered all the contents of the cabinet. He quickly washed and dried the thermometer before returning to the mother and her child.

Mary sat by Jo's knees, speaking quietly. His school jumper was folded in her lap. She quit speaking as John entered the room.

"Put this under your tongue, Jo," the man told the child.

The child complied and crossed his eyes, trying to see the reading. John smiled as the instrument beeped and Jo handed it back to him. He did have a fever, though not very high. John continued to examine the boy, fairly satisfied with what he saw. Jo began to yawn widely, eyes falling closed every few seconds.

John sat back and motioned Mary out of the room before him, leaving the door open behind them. They stepped into the kitchen and John turned on the kettle.

"Jo should be fine," he told her as he washed the dust from two mugs. "Let him rest and keep him hydrated. You can stay here as long as you need."

"Thank you, John," Mary said, sinking into a chair at the table. "You didn't have to do this. Any of this."

John shrugged. "I'm a doctor. It's what I do."

"But allowing us to come here?" Mary replied.

John stared at the water beginning to boil in the pot. "It was for the best," he said quietly. "And I can't run forever."

Mary stood and put her hand on his arm. "John? Are you okay?"

John looked back at her and then out into the sitting room for the first time. Mrs Hudson had tidied only a very little of the flat long ago, most likely days after Sherlock had died and John had left. Much of it was how John and Sherlock had left it the day that they'd both been arrested. By the window sat Sherlock's violin.

He nodded and walked away from her. To the violin. It, like everything else, was dusty. He touched a shaking hand to one of its strings and plucked it. The note was pure, but most likely out of tune. He simply didn't know enough to tell the difference.

John sank to his knees, cradling the instrument against his chest carefully. For the first time in months, John allowed himself to grieve.


	6. Chapter 6

Almost didn't have a chance to post this! Happy Holidays to everyone, even if it's a bit late! There's only a few more chapters after this one, and then there's a sequel that will finally have Sherlock in it! Thanks again to isolde-blue!

* * *

Justice.

Chapter Five.

John woke the next morning on the sofa. Sometime in the night, Mary had coaxed him there and covered him with a blanket. The precious violin was still embraced in his arms and a sob rose in his throat as he traced a finger along the smooth wood.

He stood and walked across the room. He carefully tucked the instrument into its case. Sherlock had rarely used the violin case, preferring to leave it out when a new thought came to the forefront of his mind that needed his full attention. He closed the lid and fixed the latch, shutting it, and the feelings it provoked, away.

"Here."

John blinked and turned to see Mary holding out a wet cloth. He took it, but held it in his hand, not sure what he was meant to use it for.

Mary smiled gently. "It's for your eyes. It will soothe them."

"Oh, thank you," he replied. "Are they that red?"

The twitch of her lips was all the answer he needed. He sighed and pressed the cloth to his eyes. It did feel cool against his eyelids.

"Thank you again," Mary told him.

John shook his head. "I don't mind. I'm sorry about…last night."

"John," she admonished. "He was your best friend. It's completely understandable."

"That's funny," he replied and sat back down on the sofa, Mary beside him. "Everyone else think that I should have already moved on."

"No one else knew him like you did, John. They only saw the petulant side of him."

"The petulant side?" John asked, surprised that he laughed. "You call being a sociopath 'petulant?!'"

Mary smiled. "Now do you really think he was a sociopath?"

"No," John replied, shaking his head. "No, I don't think so. He told me once that he divorced himself from his feelings. You can't do that if you don't have any. And the music he played. There was nothing emotionless about that."

They both fell quiet. The only sound they could hear were those of the street below them.

"You can stay here as long as you need," John said, breaking the silence.

"Will you be here as well?"

John paused before answering. "I do have to work, but…" he looked around the front room and somehow it was easier than it had been the night before. "I think I've missed it here."

Mary nodded. "It's your home."

* * *

Two days later Joe felt better and he and his mother left the flat for the first time together that morning. Mary had only left to get them a few days' worth of clothes the day after John's breakdown. It was John's scheduled day off and the flat seemed quieter than the little place he had been staying at just days before. He went to the window and watched the people on the street below. His breath fogged the glass.

He'd been to Bart's. He was soon to return completely to Baker Street. He was finally coming to terms with the fact that Sherlock was gone, but he had to keep going. There were only a few other places that John did not want to return to, but he would make himself do so eventually. But there was only one place that he'd felt it was okay to go to since Sherlock had died. It was there that John had gone whenever days had been too hard to handle in public. Sherlock's grave.

John didn't know what he found so peaceful about the cemetery where his friend's body lay, especially since almost everything else that reminded him of the man, their time together, and that he was no longer there sent John into a downward spiral. Maybe because it had never seemed quite real when there had been a closed casket at Sherlock's funeral and then it had been buried without John ever really seeing the man's face again. He could not explain it, but he hadn't doubted it since the first time he'd returned to the headstone after the funeral.

John turned from the window and went up the stairs. The dust was still thick in his old room since he'd only gone up there to change his clothes.

Dressed in a warm jumper and jeans, John went downstairs and grabbed his coat before knocking on Mrs Hudson's door.

"John?" she asked as she opened the door.

"Mrs Hudson," John said warmly. "I just wanted to tell you that I think I'm going to come back."

The older woman smiled. "Oh dear! One of my boys coming home!"

"I'll start moving my things back tomorrow," John told her and kissed her cheek. "But I'm going out. I'll be back before dark."

"Okay, dear," Mrs Hudson replied and John left the flat.

He tucked his hands into his pockets as he walked. He soon hailed a cab and had it leave him at the cemetery.

As always, the graveyard was quiet. John tried to walk quietly to avoid disturbing the few people visiting their departed loved ones. He looked up to find Sherlock's grave and saw a dark figure there.

As he came closer, John's blood cooled in his veins till he felt like it was ice. The person standing at the foot of his best friend's grave was The Woman. Irene Adler.

She glanced over as he came closer.

"You're supposed to be dead," he spoke flatly.

She looked back at the headstone. "I would have been, if not for him."

Finally, standing next to her, he stopped. "He saved you? From terrorists?"

She nodded, long hair falling forward. She brought a gloved hand up and tucked it back behind her ear once more. "I thought my luck had finally run out and then he was there. He helped me fake my death and I've been free ever since. I had hoped that he could do the same for himself."

"Do you believe he could have done it?" John asked quietly.

"You knew him best," Irene replied. "Do you think it's possible?"

"If anyone could fool the whole country and live through that fall it would have been him," John said resolutely.

Irene took her phone—a different one—out of her pocket and checked the time. "I must leave. My flight takes off soon. I only returned to see if the rumours were true."

John nodded and she walked away. He stared down at the brittle grass and thought.

"Can you really still be alive?" he whispered, unable to keep the smallest embers of hope from being kindled.

* * *

"_Sherlock!"_

John yelled as he jerked awake, gasping. His eyes jumped from item to item and he recognized that he was lying on the couch in the sitting room of 221B. He dropped his head into his hands.

There was no way. The building had been too tall. The ground too solid. Sherlock had jumped too fast. And John…John had been both too slow and not convincing enough to talk his friend down. Sherlock couldn't have survived.

Sherlock Holmes was dead. And no amount of hoping, praying, or pleading would bring him back.

John stumbled up from the sofa and into the kitchen. He opened a cupboard and fumbled inside until his hand closed around the neck of a bottle of whiskey. He sat back against the cabinet, opened the bottle, and took a swig that burned down his throat.

* * *

Edit: I've gone back and fixed a bunch of my typos. Now I know not to run through corrections sent to me in just a few minutes. Sorry about that!


	7. Chapter 7

Sorry, dudes and dudettes, for this chapter being late. Evidently the Mickey D's in the counties surrounding mine have caught on to my game of sitting outside and using the Wi-Fi. I start swearing every time I have to use it, but it's one of the few places with a half-way reliable connection around me. On the bright side, I've gone back and fixed some unintentional errors that I missed looking over the chapters isolde-blue sent me. Any mistakes left over are mine alone. That and this whole winter break has been spent improving my vision. I go back to school on Monday, so I'll have more time to work!

Anyways, the story's almost halfway through and I've begun typing out the second part. I'll begin posting that when I finish it. I'm going to keep posting it under this title, though, because it's just simpler. I'll make a few changes when it comes time for that. Fair warning! If you don't like slash, you shouldn't read past the first part. Once Sherlock comes back so does the boy-love that I so enjoy writing!

Also, this chapter hasn't been betaed. Isolde-blue and I both go to college and everyone who's gone through at least a semester knows it can get pretty hectic.

* * *

Justice.

Chapter Six.

John had passed tipsy a while ago. Shortly after, he'd achieved pleasantly drunk and kept going. He was well on to his way to a drunken stupor, when he heard the door below shut. Minutes later the door to the flat opened and shut and a figure soon stood in the doorway of the kitchen.

"John?"

John dropped his head down right before Mary flipped the light switch on.

"John?" she said once more as she knelt beside him. "What's wrong?"

He slowly raised his head and blinked at her. She gasped, eyes wide, and stood before walking away. But she was soon back, handkerchief in hand. She wiped his face carefully and he realized, for the first time, that he was crying.

"What happened?" she asked when she was done and had sat beside him.

"I went to his grave," he said thickly. "_She_," he grimaced, "The Woman, was there."

She nodded and he continued.

"She was supposed to be dead. She told me that Sh… That he saved her and faked her death," John pressed the heels of his palms tightly to his eyes. "I thought that he might have lived somehow. He'd be the only one capable to fool everyone…But I was only fooling myself. He was just a man, though a brilliant one. There's no way he could live through that fall."

Mary wrapped an arm around his shoulder. "It's okay to grieve, John. You've been closing yourself off from it for months. If you don't allow yourself to grieve you'll never feel whole again." She tilted his head to her as his hands fell away. "But grieve in healthy ways." She tilted her head to the bottles lying beside them. "Don't make yourself sick."

She lowered her hand and he dropped his head to her shoulder. "How'd you know to come?" he asked wearily.

"A man called me. He said his name was Mycroft," Mary answered.

John groaned. "That was his brother. I should have known that there were still cameras here."

"He filmed the two of you?" Mary asked, shocked.

"Him more than me. Mycroft said he was always concerned for him," John answered.

"O-kay," Mary said slowly. "So that adds more questions than answers."

"Such is life when you've become involved with the Holmes!" John replied. Mary laughed lightly.

"Okay, let's get your philosophical arse off this floor," she said, squeezing his arm. Mary helped him to his feet and led him (albeit unsteadily as he was taller, heavier, and much more drunk than her) to the couch.

He sank down onto the couch. Mary covered his legs with the blanket and sat down beside him. His head fell once more to rest on her shoulder. They sat together in silence.

"Where's Joe?" John whispered, afraid to speak too loud. He did not want to disturb the peace of that moment after the storm of emotions that had overwhelmed him and driven him to the bottle.

"He's in that bedroom again. I couldn't leave him alone, even if a mystery man calling told me that he would keep him safe," Mary answered.

"I'm sorry," John said.

"It's okay, John," Mary said, squeezing his wrist. "I said that you could call me. This time someone else did for you."

John nodded and shut his eyes. Mary smelled like citrus fruit, especially her hair. The shoulder beneath his face was warm and soft.

"John, I've been meaning to ask you something," Mary said hesitantly. "It would stay between the two of us, but…I'm curious."

"Mm-hmm," he mumbled.

"Did you love Sherlock?"

John shut his eyes as his stomach seemed to drop. He bit his lips shut, suddenly feeling sick.

"John, are you okay?!"

He nodded and sat up slowly on his own, breathing deep and slow. "Why?" he rasped.

"I'm sorry! It's just—I remember the two of you. You were different with each other than with the police. It doesn't mean if you were together! There are many levels of love—" Mary rambled, words stringing together in her anxiety.

"He was my best friend," John said and Mary's jaw snapped shut. "In a way…I guess I did love him, but I don't know how. It doesn't matter now, though. He's gone and only a fool thinks himself in love with a dead man."

John looked away at the window that Sherlock had often stood by playing his violin. "One of the last things I said to his face was that he was a machine. I can never take that back and he will never hear my apologies. I wish more than anything that I could tell him that those were the worst, most meaningless words I have ever spoken. And that I'm sorry."

* * *

And that's all folks! If anyone's still reading this, I hope you've enjoyed this! Sorry about the long note at the beginning. Now I must be on my way. Too much planned for today. Don't forget to review!


	8. Chapter 8

So, because I'm an idiot, I miscounted the number of chapters. Yeah, and I'm in college. Says a lot about me, doesn't it? Anyways, there'll be ten chapters to this part. I'm going to post them weekly and replace them if I get corrections. I don't much like Wednesdays, so that'll be my posting day, because I need something to look forward to. Thanks for all the reviews, alerts, and favorites, but don't forget to review when you reach the bottom!

* * *

Justice.

Chapter Seven.

John had become used to days spent drinking then puking during his time in the military. That night by far wasn't the worst he'd ever had. He'd served with an American sailor once who had sworn by coffee as a miracle hangover remedy.

He stumbled into the kitchen and made a cup of (very) strong coffee blearily. Every noise was louder and every scent was stronger than normal.

Finally, with his first cup finished and the second steaming in the mug, John began to feel human once more. He quietly crept to the door of Sherlock's old room to check on his guests. Mary had only left once she thought him already asleep. John stood in the doorway to the room, watching them.

Joe slept on the far side of the bed, sheets wrapped around him. Mary slept beside him, lying on her back. As he sipped from his mug, John noticed for the first time the dark shadows under the woman's eyes and the frown lines that marred her otherwise youthful face.

Joe snuffled in his sleep and Mary stirred, hand moving towards her son to check that he was okay. Satisfied that the boy was still there, she fell back into a deeper sleep.

John shifted his weight from the door frame and went back to the couch. He picked up his laptop from the table before he sat down. John set his cup on the table beside him as the computer booted up and he logged on. As he checked that morning's news he picked the cup back up and sipped. He glanced back to the table to replace the mug when he nearly dropped it as wide, light eyes stared up at him.

John had noticed Joe's eyes before. There was no reason they should have surprised him. They were much more blue than green like _his_ eyes. But the boy had that dark curly hair, made even wilder from sleeping.

John set the cup down before his shaking hands could drop it. "Joe, you scared me."

"I'm sorry," the boy whispered. John had never heard him speak any louder. Mary had said that he was very shy around strangers.

Joe stared silently up at him for so long that John began to shift. "So…do you like your school?"

Joe nodded and continued to watch the man avidly.

"Do you want to watch something on the telly?"

Joe tilted his head to the side and opened his mouth. "Are you going to be my new daddy?"

John's jaw fell open. "W-what?!"

"Mummy doesn't talk about me to her friends from work. We've been here for days. She's also nicer to you than anyone but me and my grandparents," the boy shrugged.

"No," John said, shaking his head. "Your mum…I'm just helping her out with an article that she's writing. She's a good friend."

Joe nodded and looked down at John's cup. 'What's on the side?" he asked, pointing.

John smiled. "Why don't you sit down?" he asked, patting the sofa cushion beside him. The boy complied, still staring at John. "I served in the army as a doctor. This," he held the cup up for the boy to see, "is the crest for the Royal Medical Corp."

"You were in the army?" Joe asked, eyes alight with curiosity.

"Yes," John said, setting his cup down and pulling the dog tags he wore from underneath his shirt. He showed one of the silver disks to the boy. "I was in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

"What's that one?" Joe asked, little fingers closing over the single black disk. John could still see part of the words that were inscribed on it. _Sherlock Hol-_

"It's for my friend," John said quietly. "He passed away."

"I'm sorry," Joe whispered as the metal tag fell from his fingers and came to rest on top of John's shirt.

John shook his head. "It's okay," he whispered the empty words. He nudged the remote towards the boy, hoping to distract him from their conversation.

"Do you have anything for breakfast?" Joe asked abruptly.

John stood slowly, careful for his stomach's sake. "I don't think so," he said as he went into the kitchen and checked the fridge and cabinets. All were empty from the months that the flat had been vacant. "We can go downstairs and pick up some sandwiches from Speedy's, though."

Joe nodded and followed John downstairs to the shop. Together, they bought enough food for breakfast for the three of them.

They were walking upstairs when there was a thud behind the door to the flat and a shout. John shifted to stand between the door and the boy.

"Joe, go upstairs and lock the door," John told him, never taking his eyes from the door. He pushed Joe up the second set of stairs and waited till he heard the door shut.

John took smooth steps, walking silently, and opened the door slowly. He reached a hand in and took the umbrella left beside the door. John pushed the door open, umbrella held aloft in front of him. He could hear a shuffling in the bedroom.

"Joe?" Mary called, voice high and trembling. She rushed from the bedroom and jumped back when she saw him, back hitting the wall. Her eyes were wide and her face pale. "John?"

"Are you okay?" John asked, lowering the umbrella.

Mary slid down the wall, folding her arms around her sides, tears streaming down her face. "They took Joe."

John's brow furrowed. "Joe was with me. He's upstairs."

Mary's head jerked up and she stared up at him before she rose to her feet and ran past him to the room upstairs. "Joe?! Joe, open this door!"

John stepped just outside the door to the flat and watched as Joe opened the door. Mary fell to her knees and hugged the boy tightly to her. John could hear her whispering fervently, but no distinct words.

Finally, Mary's arms loosened and she looked back at John. She inhaled shakily. "Is there a telly in there?" she asked, voice barely loud enough for John to hear.

"Yes, Mum," Joe nodded.

Mary nodded. "Watch it in there until I come up for you, okay?"

Joe nodded and stepped back from his mother and went back inside the room. Mary stood and watched him a moment before shutting the door. She turned back to John and walked down the stairs. "We need to talk."

John nodded, motioning her into the kitchen. He went about making tea as Mary held herself in one of the chairs at the table. He set a full cup before her and she unfolded herself and wrapped shaking hands around it. John sat opposite her.

"Joe and I are in danger," she said finally, staring into the steaming tea. "And it's all my fault."

"Tell me what's wrong," John spoke quietly and she sipped from the cup. Some of her colour began to return.

"Charles…his family and the people they worked with…They threatened to kill me and take Joe. It's why we left to go to my parents. And why we changed our name."

"But don't they know your name? Or did you lie about retaking your maiden name?" John asked.

Mary shook her head. "No. Charles only introduced me to them after we were married. I was nineteen and pregnant. I had to drop out of school and Charles…he offered to take care of us. Before that he wasn't on good terms with his family. He returned with me and went into the 'family business.' It only got worse. He began drinking and, after Joe was born, hitting.

"His family blames me for his being convicted. So we left," she bit her lip. "I couldn't run forever and…I heard that Mr Holmes had been in trouble when he died. Joe…I asked him if he wanted to stay with my parents, but he… He'd already lost his father. He can't even remember him now. He didn't want to lose me, too. We've been moving every other week since we came back so that they won't find us."

John stared. Her hands trembled, almost spilling the hot tea. He carefully took the mug from her so she wouldn't do herself harm.

"Mary…stay here. I—I need to go out, but…the two of you are safe here," he told her and she looked up, eyes large. "I'll come back, but I need to talk to someone."

Mary nodded and looked back down at her tea sitting beside her hand. John stood and walked downstairs. He knew of only one place the man he needed to speak to would be. The Diogenes Club.

* * *

The idea of the memorial tag came from Nicholas Sparks' novel and movie The Lucky One. I don't know if military folk actually do this.


	9. Chapter 9

I made myself wait to post this. I was just itching to have it up yesterday!

* * *

Justice.

Chapter Eight.

John had only been to the Diogenes club twice, but he remembered both times vividly. He walked silently (He'd learned his lesson the first time.) and opened the door to the room that Mycroft Holmes often used as his office.

The older man glared up at him, but motioned him in as he continued his conversation on the phone he held to his ear.

John sat down and watched Mycroft. He turned away and quickly finished speaking and ended his call. He looked up at John.

"Why are you here, John? I'm a very busy man," Mycroft informed him, folding his hands on the desk.

"I need your help," John replied, straight to the point. "I have a friend who is in danger and has no way out."

"You are speaking of Mary Morstan and her son?" Mycroft asked, surprising John. "Yes, we are aware of the activities of her ex-husband, Charles Monohan's family. It was difficult enough to convict him. It would be next to impossible to do so for the rest of them."

"Who are they?"

Mycroft's phone beeped. He looked at the screen and put it back down on the desk. "They are former associates of James Moriarty. At the time of his death, their friendship was going south."

"Why haven't you done something yet?" John asked. "They're a threat to the count—"

"They are not a priority at this moment," Mycroft spoke firmly over him. "John, there are much larger threats out there currently."

John clenched his hands into fists. "Not to Mary and not to her son," he spat as he stood from his chair. He'd only made it three steps toward the door when Mycroft spoke.

"John," he said and the doctor stopped, but did not turn back. "I cannot help your friend at the moment. The only possible plan of action would be to take them into protective custody, and do you really think she would want that?"

"She'd do it for her son," John said, voice tight.

"At first, but there is no telling how long it would take," Mycroft told him. "My hands are tied, John, but yours are not."

"What's that supposed to mean?" John asked, turning to face him once more.

Mycroft sat back in his chair. "You are army trained and you lived with my brother. I do not believe they could have any better protector."

John nodded and left. He caught a cab to head back to Baker Street. He watched the buildings pass by and he thought. This was one thing he hadn't expected.

It would be simple enough to devise ways to protect them, if Mary agreed. They could stay at the flat, which was already moderately secure. But that wasn't the only thing to worry about. How would they explain the new development from complete strangers to a man and woman living together with her child to those who didn't know Mary's problem? The best plan of action was to keep them from as much public attention as possible. That limited most of their options.

The cab left him in front of 221B and John entered the building and walked upstairs, still thinking over the possibilities.

Mary sat on the sofa, her laptop in front of her and her fingers clicking away on the keys. Joe sat on the floor watching the telly. He turned when John came in.

"Mummy's working on her article," he said, chin resting on his knees. "She uses music to concentrate and can't hear us."

John nodded as he hung his coat. "Have you eaten?"

Joe nodded. "Mrs Hudson came by earlier and said she'd make supper for all of us."

John nodded and, sitting in his arm chair, asked the boy what he was watching. He explained the program and they watched it together. Mary only took her earbuds off and quit working when Mrs Hudson came upstairs to tell them that dinner was ready downstairs.

John watched mother and son while they ate. Mary never went more than a few moments without glancing at her son. She smiled down at him, but the tightness around her eyes never left.

It was just before they went back upstairs that John finally made his decision. He didn't say anything of it to either of them until after Joe was put to bed.

"Mary," he said when she came out of the room that Joe was sleeping in. She walked over to him and sat down beside him on the sofa, legs tucked underneath her.

"What is it?" she asked.

"I have an offer," John said. "I spoke to Mycroft and…he can't do anything. I'm sorry. But he reminded me that he's not the only one who could help and I can do something."

"What are you saying, John?"

John looked up, hands worrying the hem of his jumper. "Will you marry me?"

For several seconds Mary just stared at him. Then she began shaking her head. "No, John….no. I…John, I can't."

"It would explain why you would be staying here," John told her. "People would pay less attention and you wouldn't have to move every few weeks. I could protect you and Joe."

"John," she whispered, tears falling from her eyes. "You…what if you meet someone? And…John, you don't know what it's like to be a parent."

"Mary," he said, quietly shushing her. "I've felt lost for so long now. I'm finding myself again, because of you and your son. I have purpose again. If you agree, I think this is where I belong."

Mary buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking. "John, I…Joe, he wouldn't understand. He has to come first with me. Could you treat him like your own son?"

"I'd be honoured to."

Mary picked her head up and gaped at him. She shut her mouth and began nodding slowly.

* * *

And this is the chapter that sets a lot for the second act. Hope you've enjoyed the development! Don't forget to drop a line and tell me your thoughts! There's one more chapter left in this act!


	10. Chapter 10

I'm so happy that I can finally post this!

* * *

Justice.

Chapter Nine.

Mary had never expected the public reaction to her article to be so strong, though she should have. People had always had strong feelings about Sherlock Holmes, whether good or bad.

The editor of The Sun had read Mary's article and slotted it for publication the very next day. It had sold more copies in one day than any of their other issues in the past two years and Mary found herself as a regular journalist for the same paper only a few days later.

People were now speaking out, telling their stories of Sherlock Holmes. D.I. Lestrade had been appointed to head the investigation into the days leading to the consulting detective's death as there had been too many things that hadn't added up, but had been ignored before. Graffiti was appearing all over London, England, the world. All said 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes.'

There were still many who opposed Sherlock and were just as vocal about the matter, but they now had people to argue against who would not just give up and stay silent.

John and Mary were keeping their engagement a secret from all but their close friends and family. Mary and Joe had moved their things in a week after John proposed. Jo had been confused at first, but had quickly warmed up to the man. Every night since they'd told him that they would be married, Jo had asked John for one of the stories of his adventures.

Two weeks after the article was published, Mary was sitting at her desk, working on a new piece. She looked up when she heard the mail cart stop beside her.

"Ms Morstan?" the gingery haired man asked in a youthful tenor. Mary didn't recognize him, but she'd only been there a short time.

"Yes," she said. He handed her a stack of letters and replies to her article.

"You wrote that piece on Sherlock Holmes, right?" he asked, resting his forearms on the cart.

Mary nodded.

"I bet he would have appreciated it had he been alive," he said and stood straight once more. "Congratulations on the upcoming wedding."

Mary nodded her thanks and turned to her mail. She froze with the first letter open before her. No one in the building knew about her engagement.

She stood and whipped her head around, looking for the man, but he was gone. Mary walked quickly from her desk and out into the hall. The cart was by the wall, but there was no one to be seen. Mary ran down the hall and down the stairs till she stood in front of the building.

She stood outside, gasping for breath. The man had completely disappeared.

"Ms Morstan."

She turned and saw a man in a smart suit standing by the wall, umbrella in hand.

"I should introduce myself," he said. "I'm Mycroft Holmes, a fri—"

"Was that him?"

The elder Holmes shut his mouth before replying. "Ms Morstan, I do not know who—"

"Quit with the bullshit. I know you know who I'm talking about," she said, hands on her hips. Mycroft's lips thinned in irritation. "Why hasn't Sherlock spoken to John? Doesn't he know how much John is still hurting?"

"Have you considered that perhaps there is a reason my brother fell that day?" he asked, watching as he slowly turned the umbrella in his hand.

Mary's gasp was nearly inaudible. "Will he come back? To John?"

"I believe that is the end he is working towards," he nodded.

Mary looked around once more, though she knew he was long gone. "What if I tell John? He has a right to know."

Mycroft shifted his weight, the only physical reaction to the discomfort her statement caused. "I do not suggest that plan of action. His life is still in peril and his knowledge may have a negative impact upon that."

She bit her lip, at war with herself. "Keep him safe. You have him return home when he can and I'll make sure he has someone to return home to."

Mycroft nodded and raised his umbrella to his shoulder. "It will be a pleasure working with you, Mary Morstan. Congratulations on soon becoming a Watson," he said as he walked away.

Mary watched him disappear as well before walking back in the building. John was right, she mused as she sat down once more. Life became more complicated when the Holmes were involved.

* * *

And that folks is the last chapter of the first act in the story. It's getting larger than I expected. Anyways, I'll be back again next week with the first chapter for the second act.

Time for my warnings for that part! If you don't want to read slash, don't continue. That's been the endgame I've had in mind this whole time. I just like foreplay. Also, the next few chapters are really, really tear-jerking. It almost made me cry when I was writing it and I know just about everything that's going to happen. But if you're still with me and haven't been scared off, meet me back here next week with your box of tissues and ice cream! Be my valentine, leave a review! This chapter was a bit different than my normal type, so I'm a bit unsure!


	11. Chapter 11

Hope you remembered your tissues and ice cream! Anybody want to share with me?

* * *

Justice: Part II

Chapter One

_19 Months later._

John Watson smiled as he heard Joseph Morstan—his stepson!—bound down the stairs and into the sitting room. Gone was the shy, quiet child that had moved into 221B Baker Street and in his place was a boy with endless energy and enthusiasm.

"Are you ready for your first day?" John asked, grinning as the boy seemed to vibrate in place.

Joe nodded furiously. "I get to be in Mr Langeley's class this year!"

"I know," John replied, almost not able to laugh when the boy wriggled up into his lap. He finally settled on John's thigh, satisfied, swinging his legs back and forth.

"Are my boys ready?"

John and Joe turned to see Mary coming out of the kitchen. Her personality had changed as well. She no longer had to bare the weight of her situation alone. Without the stress of looking over her shoulder all the time or having to move every few weeks, Mary had flourished as much as her son. The article that had begun the movement to clear Sherlock's name (which was still going strong) had launched her career at The Sun.

"Yes, Mummy," Joe said as he slid off John's lap and ran to his mother.

"Well, don't you look dashing!" Mary exclaimed, eyes laughing as Joe spun in a circle, showing off his new uniform she'd laid out for him the night before.

"Thank you, Mummy," the boy said. "Didn't you say that you have to look your absolute best on your first day?"

"Yes, I did," she replied and knelt beside him. "Give me a kiss. I've got to go."

Joe complied and hugged her tight as he told her he loved her. When he let go, she stood and went over to John. She leant down and pecked his forehead.

"You remember where Joe's school is, right?" she asked.

"Yes," John replied, grinning. "And several ways to get there. When to drop him off and pick him up as well. I've already packed his lunch, too. Is there anything else?"

Mary shook her head, laughing. "Just breakfast, which Mrs Hudson said that she'd make."

"Okay," John said and caught her hand in his. "Have a good day."

"You, too," Mary replied as she squeezed. She let go and went to the coat rack. "I'll see you boys tonight," she said as she shrugged her jacket on. She bent down beside her son once more. "Enjoy your first day back," she told him as she brushed some of his unruly locks away from his eyes. "I love you."

"I love you, too," Joe said, wrapping his arms around her waist.

They heard her laughter as she went down that stairs. Mrs Hudson called for her to enjoy her day as she made her way upstairs with a tray full of pancakes.

They had just sat down to eat when they heard a gunshot and then car horns. John and Mrs Hudson stared at each other before John jumped up and ran to his and Mary's bedroom. He unlocked his bedside drawer and took out his gun.

"Watch Joe for a minute, Mrs Hudson," John called as he tucked the gun in the back of his jeans and covered it with his jumper. He shut the door behind him and saw the older woman holding a confused Joe down by his shoulders. "Eat your breakfast before it gets cold, Joe. I'll be right back."

John skipped every other step as he ran down and out onto the street. He looked both ways and saw the group of people a few streets over. He ran towards them.

"Let me through, I'm a doctor," John yelled as he shoved past people. As he squeezed between two large men, John finally saw the scene.

There was too much blood. All the years spent in medical school and then serving told him that the odds of someone living through this were decreasing by the moment. He could see a woman's legs beside the stopped car. John forced himself to keep breathing as he knelt beside the woman. It was Mary.

* * *

"John, is—" Mrs Hudson cut herself off as she saw him slowly walk up the stairs to the flat. "Oh God."

John had already stripped his jumper off and was working on the buttons of his shirt. They were both spotted with splatters of blood.

"Is it?" she asked quietly.

John nodded, throat tight.

Mrs Hudson covered her mouth as tears fell from her eyes.

John threw his shirts away and put his gun back in the locked drawer. He took another jumper from his drawers as he walked back to the main room.

Joe sat beside Mrs Hudson as she sobbed, holding him. The boy looked terrified and confused. John sat down beside him.

"Joe," John began and cleared his throat. "You're…you're going to miss your first day."

"Why?" the boy asked, confused and innocent.

"We have to go to the A&E," John told him. "Your mum…she needs us."

"Is she okay?"

John couldn't answer him. He just hugged the boy to his chest and tried not to cry.

* * *

Mary had her own private room, courtesy of one Mycroft Holmes. John's throat burned when he thought of the man. This was the second time they'd been unable to protect someone important to John.

"Dr Watson?" he turned and saw an aging doctor asking him to come to him. John turned back to Mrs Hudson.

"Can you take him in?" he asked. She nodded and the man bent down to the boy's level. "You have to be careful, okay?"

Joe nodded, wide eyed, before Mrs Hudson gently pushed him into his mother's room.

John woodenly stood and made his way to his wife's doctor. His eyes wet as he listened. He nodded, unable to speak and, finally, the doctor allowed him to see her.

He stood in the doorway, watching Joe speak quietly with Mary, who was already visibly weakening. Her face was pale, lips beginning to fade in colour as well. She glanced over and beckoned him over.

John sat in the seat beside Mrs Hudson and pulled Joe into his lap and wrapped his arms around him. Mary gave him a shaky smile.

"Mrs Hudson, could you go with Joe and get something to drink?" Mary asked, voice soft.

"Yes, dear," the older woman replied and stood, taking Joe's hand. "Would either of you like something?"

They both shook their heads and the two left the room.

"I'm dying, aren't I?"

John covered his face and nodded. "The bullet wound wouldn't be fatal by itself. If it had been just that you would have been able to recover, but the car…There's too much internal bleeding and…they can't do anything about it."

Mary shifted on the bed. "I need you to take care of Joe. Tell him that I loved him," she said, voice thickening with tears. "Keep him safe and, please John, love him like he was your own son."

John lowered his hand to one of hers. The skin was dry and papery. "I already love him, Mary. I'm so, so—"

"No," she interrupted him. "I always knew I wouldn't see him grow up. Especially after Charles died. Joe has always been my priority," she paused swallowing, tears falling down her cheeks. "Thank you, John. I am forever grateful for what you have done for Joe and me."

John took a deep breath. "I'll tell him what's happened."

Mary nodded, wiping her cheeks with one hand. "Thank you, John. I'm sorry. I'm not sure I could do it."

John nodded and covered her hand with both of his. "Did you recognize your attacker?"

Mary nodded. "It was Charles' brother, Edwin. No doubt, he's already disappeared."

He nodded and squeezed her hand. He should have gone with her that morning.

"John, I don't want Joe to see it," Mary said. She glanced at the door. "It's going to be hard enough. He doesn't need to be here. Just let me say goodbye."

"I'll have Mrs Hudson take him home," John replied.

"You don't have to be here, John," Mary said gently.

John shook his head and brushed her hair away from her eyes. "We may've never loved each other, but you've been a great friend. I can't let you go through this alone."

She squeezed his hand and closed her eyes. "Thank you."

"Mummy!"

They both turned and saw Joe run over and stand between John's knees, gazing up at his mother. He held a large bottle of water in his hand. "One of the nurses gave me this!"

Mary nodded and brushed her hand through his soft, tangled locks. "Honey, Mrs Hudson's going to take you home, okay?"

Joe nodded and wriggled to his mother's side. "I love you, Mummy!"

A tear fell from Mary's cheek. "I love you, too, Joe. Be a good boy."

The boy nodded. "I'll see you soon!" He hugged her hand kissed it before running back to Mrs Hudson.

"Mrs Hudson," Mary called and the woman turned back. "I've appreciated everything."

Mrs Hudson nodded and stifled a sob as she and Joe left.

* * *

John came home late that night. He wearily hung his coat and slumped on the couch.

"Where's Mummy?"

John turned and saw Joe standing in the doorway in his pyjamas.

"Come here, Joe," John said and the boy warily walked to him. John lifted him into his lap and held tight. "Joe, your mummy…she's not coming back."

"Where'd she go?" Joe asked.

John bit his lip. "Mary passed away. She didn't want to leave you, but she had to. She loved you very, very much."

"Mummy," the boy whispered as tears began to fall from his eyes. "I want my mummy."

John pulled the boy to his chest and held him there. His heart broke for both mother and child as Joe sobbed.

* * *

I told you about the tissues. Just reading through on a final edit almost had me going. Don't forget to drop a line!


	12. Chapter 12

Hello again! I'm back! Sorry, again, for the last chapter being so sad. I warned you, though! The only condolence I can offer is that Sherlock will be returning soon. Not this chapter, but soon! I hope you'll forgive any mistakes. It's unbetaed currently, but I did my best to look it over!

Chapter Two.

* * *

John hated funerals. It had started when he was a child. His great-grandfather had passed when he was nine, the same age Joe was when his mother died. Every funeral John had been to, even Sherlock's, couldn't compare to the pain of Mary's.

It was small and intimate. Even after marrying John, Mary hadn't associated with others much more. A few of her friends from work that John knew attended the service. Mrs Hudson, John, and Joe were there, of course. John's sister (blessedly sober), and parents had come to support John and Joe, even though they had met her only a handful of times.

Who John had expected to come, but hadn't really thought too much about, had arrived two days after their daughter had died and a day before her funeral. Mary's parents, George and Helen Morstan.

They stood beside Joe, who clung to John's left leg. The couple, who had to be nearing their sixties, had shown a world of concern and sympathy for Joe, but none to John. And he couldn't blame them.

When the casket was lowered into the ground, Joe turned his head into John's leg. The man picked him up and held him as his tears soaked into John's suit jacket. His shoulders rose and fell in sobs, which only rose in volume every time he heard dirt strike the lid of his mother's coffin.

Mary's co-workers waved their goodbyes to him, not wanting to disturb the grieving boy in his arms. Mrs Hudson lay a hand on the boy's back as she whispered that she would be hack at her flat with lunch for them. John's parents left, telling him to call if he needed anything. Harry stood beside him only a few minutes longer than his parents, before clasping a hand on his shoulder and walking away.

Mary's parents stayed with them until after their daughter was buried. Joe was sleeping lightly for the first time since her death in John's aching arms. But John wouldn't let the boy down, no matter how painful his arms became.

They began to walk away together towards the car that had carried them there.

"Thank you for taking care of the expenses of Mary's funeral," Helen said quietly.

John shook his head and hefted the boy in his arms higher. "I didn't, but a…close friend did. He couldn't attend the service."

They fell into an awkward silence as they sat down in the car that Mycroft Holmes had also provided.

"John…" George began and paused. "Did Mary ever tell you how difficult it was to be a single parent?"

John nodded, rubbing his hand up and down Joe's back.

George and Helen exchanged a glance. "John," she spoke quietly, laying a hand on Joe's shoulder. "We've talked and Joe…He's not your son. But he is our grandson. Let us take him back with us to India."

Joe stiffened in John's arms and jerked away from his grandmother. He looked up at her with hurt, wet eyes, shaking his head and clung all the more to John.

"It's okay," the man whispered, but the boy only shook his head more, tears falling once more from his eyes. "Joe, it's alright. You have me."

But Joe did not settle down until his grandparents were let off at the hotel they were staying at. He fell limp in John's arms, exhausted.

"Joe," John whispered. "They're your grandparents. They love you and they're worried. You could get away from London if you went with them."

Joe only shook his head before pressing it into John's neck.

* * *

I'm so sorry! I didn't expect that to be so short! On the bright side the next chapter is already over twice this long and not even fully typed out. I'll be back next Wednesday with chapter three! Don't forget to drop a line!


	13. Chapter 13

I finished typing this Saturday night. This was a difficult chapter to write, because I kept losing inspiration. But it's mostly back and I've got a few more finished chapters left!

Chapter Three.

Neither John nor Joe had slept a full night since Mary's death. Joe would wake, screaming from his nightmares and John would comfort him until he would fall into an exhausted, dreamless sleep. John stopped making Joe go to his own room upstairs after the third straight night of nightmares. Joe had hardly left his side since.

He would follow him everywhere, a small, silent shadow. Mycroft was taking care of expenses and had arranged for Joe's absences in school to be overlooked by the government. For the first time in a very long while, John found himself thankful for the elder Holmes. He could concentrate on helping Joe as much as possible.

Helping Joe was difficult, though. He refused to leave his side and, try as he might, there were times when it was irritating. They hardly left the flat, because the boy would cry every time he saw the street that John had tried to hide the workers cleaning it the day that Mary had died.

Four days passed with no change. When his grandparents would visit, Joe would ignore them and cling to John even more. John knew he wasn't a great parent, even though he was trying. He'd never been more thankful for Mrs Hudson, who'd helped with what she could.

"I don't know what to do," John whispered to her as they stood beside the stove. Joe sat on the opposite end of the table, watching them as he ate breakfast. "Do you think that I should take him to a therapist?"

The older woman glanced at the boy. "John, he needs help and I don't think you, or even his grandparents, could handle all of it," she looked back up at him. "A therapist may be able to do what you cannot."

John nodded and, later that day, began searching for qualified child psychologists. He made the first appointment with a Doctor Hunter for the next day.

Joe's hand was moist where it clutched John's. They'd taken a cab to the office building that Doctor Hunter worked in. John was just as nervous as the boy as they stepped into the waiting room.

"Can I help you?"

John turned to the desk to see a young man (possibly still in graduate school) sitting behind the computer.

"Yes," John answered. "I'm here with Joseph Watson to see Doctor Hunter. We have an appointment."

"Yes, sir," the secretary said as he looked down. "We've been expecting you. You're a few minutes early, so if you'll take a seat the doctor will be right with you."

"Thank you," John replied as he turned and Joe followed him to two seats by the wall. He sat as close to John as possible, looking around John's arm as the man read one of the magazines that had been laid out.

Several minutes later, a young man stepped into the room. "Joe Watson?"

John closed the magazine, putting it back on the table and stood beside the boy to follow the doctor.

"Oh, Mr Watson," the doctor said, stopping John. "The appointment is for Joseph. I've found that children can be more open away from their parents, so I prefer to speak to them alone."

John glanced down at Joe. The boy's hand was fisted in the material at John's thigh. He looked up at John with wide eyes. John knelt before him.

"Joe, Doctor Hunter is going to talk with you. We're trying to help you feel better," John told him, brushing curls out of his eyes. "I'll be right out here. Okay?"

Joe nodded. Doctor Hunter held the door open for him and he followed hesitantly, gazing back at John several times. Doctor Hunter shut the door behind them.

John sat down once more and picked up the magazine he'd been reading before, flipping to the page he'd stopped on. He stared down at the print, unable to read it. Joe wasn't the only one who'd grown more attached in the recent days.

John remembered the early days of when Mary and Joe had first moved in. (It had been the most awkward conversation John had ever had to tell the child that had asked him just the day before that he was going to be his stepfather.) Joe had been quiet with John, but had warmed up when he could see that his mother was calming for the first time since they'd returned to London.

Mary. John missed her, for both himself and Joe. She'd become his best friend and was the only one he could open up to at times. Most of the time she knew before he did. In that way, she was similar to Sherlock, but she was always aware of his emotions, to where Sherlock had only thought of feelings in general long after it would have made any difference.

They'd known peace for a year before they got the news. John had, at first, thought she was being pessimistic, but had been vigilant nevertheless. At her request, John had focused many of his efforts on protecting Joe.

John was jerked from his memories when the door slammed back against the wall as it opened. He found himself with an armful of his weeping stepson. John stared down at him and then up at Doctor Hunter who had followed.

"He wouldn't cooperate," the man said. "Only a few moments into the session he began crying and tried to leave the room."

John hugged Joe to him and felt the boy's trembling begin to ease. "I'm sorry," John muttered, whether to Doctor Hunter or Joe, he didn't know.

"Mr Watson," the doctor said as he sat down. "I have a colleague who specializes in children who have had the trauma of losing a parent. I can refer you to her."

"Do you think she could help?" John asked.

Hunter nodded. "I could trust no one more. I'll send you the paperwork."

John nodded and coaxed Joe into his jacket and out of the building. The boy's tears dried and he nestled between John's arm and side in the cab.

"I'm sorry," John whispered, kissing his son's curls.

Joe reached down and squeezed John's hand.

The doctor watched the city pass by as they headed back to Baker Street. He'd find Joe help.

Mrs Hudson met them at the door, silently asking him how the session had gone. When John shook his head, her face fell. She hid her disappointment as well as John had been and looked down at Jo, placing her hands on his shoulders. "I just made biscuits, sweetie. Why don't you go have some?"

Joe looked up at the man beside him. John nodded. "I'll follow." Joe nodded and left them, but sat where John was still in his eyesight.

"I don't know what I'm going to do," John told her softly. "We've got a visit scheduled with another therapist, but who knows if it'll do any good. His school's been calling. Even with Mycroft's help on that front, he's falling behind his year mates. He needs to go back, but…he won't even leave my side. Mrs Hudson, I…" he broke off, biting his lip to keep tears of frustration at bay.

"It's okay, John," Mrs Hudson said soothingly. "You're not alone. I'm helping and even Mycroft Holmes is as well." She folded his arm around her elbow. "We'll fix each problem as we come to it. As for school, I have a friend who lives near here who is a retired teacher. I spoke to him and he said that he is still licensed and would be willing to work with Joe."

"Thank you," John whispered, squeezing her arm for a moment. Joe looked up at them from where he was sitting at the table. He looked so much like he had before the accident, that John wished that he could keep him like that forever.

Joe swallowed and got up from his chair, before he came over to John, burying his face in the man's stomach.

"Tired, buddy?" John asked him softly. The boy nodded. "Okay," John said, bracing the boy under his arms and lifted him up to carry him. Joe buried his face in John's shoulder.

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," he said. "We'll be down later tonight for dinner."

The older woman smiled and kissed the boy's head and then John's cheek.

He turned and slowly, smoothly made his way up the stairs. He shifted the boy in his arms so that he could open the door and shut it behind them. He turned to face the rest of the room.

By the window was a tall, dark figure. It slowly turned as John stood transfixed by the door still.

His back slapped against the wood and Joe shifted, opening his eyes, looking up at John. He followed the man's gaze across the room.

John couldn't be seeing him. It just wasn't possible.

"John."

He let out a strangled gasp. That was it. There'd been too much stress. He'd lost his mind. Mrs Hudson would have to take care of Joe while he sought help…

Arms gripped tight around his neck and John held Joe close.

"Sherlock."

Gah! I tried to make the doctor just seem nice, but he ended up sounding like a paedophile. But Sherlock's back! I'm sorry! Drop a line! You know I appreciate it!


	14. Chapter 14

I'm ba-ack! Sorry that it's so late! I just typed it up faster than I have before! Now I have another project to go work on!

* * *

Chapter Four

John found himself still in disbelief. The man across the room looked just like the cracked detective, but he was too still. He sat, not moving except to watch John hyperventilate. Sherlock had always been in motion, much like his thoughts.

"John," the voice repeated. John ducked his head down as he held Joe tighter. It sounded so much like Sherlock, irritated at being forced into repetition, but it wasn't as well. This voice was defeated, weary, dead. "It's me, John."

"Shut up," John whispered, eyes squeezing shut. He walked away from the door, sure where he was even with his eyes closed. He shouldered the door open and shut it behind them with his foot. He sat down on his bed, shivers going up and down his spine.

A tap on his chin made him loosen his grip. Joe sat on his lap, no longer tired. The boy pointed to the door to the living room and tilted his head.

John blinked. "You saw him?" he whispered. Joe nodded. John shakily gasped for breath. "I-I need you to stay in here, okay? I'll be back soon." Joe nodded once more and crawled off his lap. John stood and left the room, shutting the door behind him.

The man—Sherlock?—still sat in the same seat, head bowed in his hands. John could see him taking deep, shuddering breaths.

"Sherlock?" John whispered and the man jerked up. Shadows hid most of his face and body. "Is it really you?"

"Yes," he answered. "I'm back. I'm alive."

John suppressed a shiver. He closed his eyes, back resting against the door. "Get out."

All sounds stopped. Sherlock didn't even breathe. "What?" The whisper was nearly broken. The old Sherlock would never have let anyone hear him sound like that.

"Get out, Sherlock," John said, voice stronger. "Trouble follows you like you're a death omen. I have a child. I can't let you put him in danger."

John opened his eyes to see his words hit Sherlock harder than any punch. The man gathered his long legs beneath him and pushed up from the armrests. Sherlock crossed the room towards the main door. John closed his eyes again, not wanting to watch his friend leave again. He heard the door open and then a dull crash.

That wasn't one of Sherlock's fake falls. He'd always been careful to make his collapse look and sound real, but did very little damage to himself. That fall was nothing like Sherlock's acting.

John opened his eyes an hit his elbow, already on his way to his friend. Sherlock was sprawled in the open doorway. John knelt beside him, checking his pulse. It was faster than it should have been and the skin under his fingers was damp with sweat. John felt the man's face to find it clammy.

"Mrs Hudson!" John called. H heard her door open and come to the bottom of the steps. "can you bring me the blood sugar meter?"

He heard her go back to her flat. Her deceased husband had left it when he'd left for America and it hadn't been used since the last time Sherlock had gone too long without eating. She soon came up the stairs and gasped when she saw the man on the floor.

"Mrs Hudson, please," John held his hand out and she quickly gave him the meter. He pricked Sherlock's finger and ran the test. Just as John thought, the man's blood sugar levels had dropped.

He handed the small machine back to the older woman and hefted Sherlock up, putting the limp arm around his neck. He shuffled them over to the couch and eased him down.

Sherlock was lighter than the last time he'd done this, before he mess they'd gotten in three years before. There'd been little separating John from the man's bones. Those two facts alone told John that, wherever he had been, the years had not been good to Sherlock.

He turned on the lamp next to the sofa to get a better look at him. Sherlock's hair reached his chin and hung, dull and limp. His skin had lost the blush of life and only held a pallor from time spent away from the sun. John tilted the man's head to the side, revealing the whole of a fading scar that he had glimpsed. It ran almost directly beside the carotid artery and up, under his ear and into his hair. The doctor wouldn't let himself think about what exactly could leave a scar like that.

"He's back?"

John turned his head woodenly to Mrs Hudson. She stood beside him, staring down at Sherlock, tears in her eyes.

He opened his mouth to reply when he heard footsteps on the stairs with a distinct tap every other step. John turned as Mycroft Holmes reached the still-open door.

He frowned at the sight of his brother lying on the sofa. "I had hoped he would wait for my driver."

The door to John's bedroom cracked open just before Joe ran out and to John. The man put his hand on the boy's shoulder when he half-hid in John's side. He'd known it had been a long shot that the boy would stay in the room, unable to see John, for very long.

"Hello, Joe," Mycroft said. "Do you remember me?"

Joe glanced up at the man and hid against John's leg. Correction, John thought, the boy was eyeing the man lying on the couch behind him.

"Well, you have questions," Mycroft stated. He folded himself down into a seat. "If you would make tea for all of us, Mrs Hudson, I will explain when you return."

Mrs Hudson left them in the room. Mycroft motioned for John and the boy to take a seat as if he owned the flat. John mused about how much of a prat the elder Holmes was and how he hadn't missed it.

John sat down in the chair closest to the sofa, to keep an eye on Sherlock, and Joe squeezed himself in, half sitting on his step-father.

Mrs Hudson returned to the room, handing all of them tea, besides Joe, who she gave milk. She sat down as well, watching Mycroft's every move. "Well," she began chidingly, "get to it."

Mycroft sipped his tea and set it down on the saucer. "My brother faked his death three years ago, as you have probably realized by now. He fooled everyone, including myself for a time. He was forced to take the actions he did because of the threats Moriarty made."

"Criminals threatened him many times before and he never paid them any mind," John scoffed. "Why would he do it then?"

"Perhaps because they had not known my brother's weakness," Mycroft said, voice firm. His eyes were unsettlingly as they watched John. "Moriarty implemented three assassins whose targets were the three people closest to Sherlock. The only thing that would call them off was if he killed himself."

John and Mrs Hudson exchanged a glance. There was no doubt that they were two of those targets.

"Sherlock has spent the last three years taking down Moriarty's network, piece by piece. I helped when and where I could, providing him with information and keeping his existence a secret. When he learned of your wife's demise," John held Joe tighter and glared at Mycroft, "he finished what he was working on and travelled to London. My driver was seconds too late to intercept him."

John glanced down at his former friend. His appearance began to make sense.

"John," Mycroft caught his attention once more. "There is still one more man that my brother has yet to find. He confided in me just before he left the last city he was in that he believes him to have had a part in certain recent events."

* * *

Hope you've enjoyed this instalment! Like always, don't forget to review!


	15. Chapter 15

Well, I'm back for a bit! I'm feeling pretty awful right now, though, and have a lot of work ahead of me before the week is up. Hopefully I'll be able to write some more this weekend.

* * *

Chapter Five

Mycroft stayed for almost an hour, speaking in his brother's defence and reassuring them that his plans were being laid.

When he left it was dark. Mrs Hudson went downstairs to make a quick dinner for most of them and soup for Sherlock when he woke up.

John sighed and Joe looked up at him. "Are you okay with him," he tilted his head to the sofa, "staying here for a little while?"

Joe nodded and reached up to the chain that still hung about John's neck, pulling it from his shirt. He held the cool metal discs and glanced at Sherlock and back.

"Yes," John answered the unspoken question. "They're one and the same. He's the friend I told you about."

Joe furrowed his brow and tilted his head, so much like Mary.

"I'm happy he's alive," John nodded. "I'm just…still in shock."

Joe nodded and leaned into John's shoulder. John stroked the soft curls beneath his hand.

"Will Mummy come back like your friend?" The voice was soft and hoarse from disuse. John's heart pounded painfully in his chest. He made Joe look up at him.

"Joe, dear. Sherlock wasn't really dead. Your mum…I was there," John stopped, shaking his head. "She loved you so much and she wanted to be here with you. But she can't."

Joe nodded and hid his face in John's shirt, tears soaking the fabric. John held him, rocking back and forth, murmuring that he was sorry over and over.

He looked up when Mrs Hudson returned. She knelt beside them and lay her hand on Joe's back. He looked up and reached for her and she wrapped him tight in her arms. John stood so that they could sit in the seat. She pointed down to her flat and John nodded, leaving the room quietly.

Once out of sight, John leaned against the wall. All of this, everything, was his fault. He'd stayed with Sherlock and become close to him. He hadn't been able to protect his friend like he should have. And now, John had let Mary die. Joe would grow up without family because John couldn't keep his promise. Or John could let the boy's grandparents take him and Joe would hate him like he should.

But John would have to wait for a better time to feel guilty. He had Joe, Mrs Hudson, and, now, Sherlock to take care of. He pushed away from the wall and went down to Mrs Hudson's kitchen. Their dinner and Sherlock's soup were already on a tray. John smiled sadly. Mrs Hudson truly was a very smart woman.

He carried the tray up the stairs. Joe was still curled in Mrs Hudson's arms. They tried to coax him to eat, but he turned his head away. The boy hid his face in the older woman's shoulder and his breathing slowed.

Mrs Hudson sat still, rubbing his back. "The poor dear's, exhausted," she whispered.

"He's having nightmares," John whispered back. "He hasn't slept a whole night through since."

"Everything will be okay, John," she said, kissing Joe's hair. "It'll only take time."

John nodded an Joe wriggled a little more before sighing. "Let me put him to bed. I'm sure you have things you'd like to do."

Mrs Hudson nodded as John lifted the boy from her lap. Joe stirred enough to cling to John's shirt. The doctor shushed him and smoothly walked to the bedroom. He lay the boy down and loosened the little hands from his shirt.

"Dad?" he heard mumbled sleepily.

John stilled. "It's okay, bud," he whispered. "Go back to sleep."

Joe nodded and nestled into the pillow. John covered him with the sheets. He turned to go.

"Love you, Daddy."

John paused at the door, a lump in his throat. "Love you, too, bud." He waited until, a few minutes later, he could hear soft snores. He quietly shut the door and returned to the vestiges of his old life.

Mrs Hudson was gently checking on Sherlock. She stood when John returned. "You look tired, John."

He shrugged. "I'm fine," he replied. "I'll rest later."

"Don't stay up till Sherlock wakes," she chided. "He'll wake when he wants to an we'll probably both hear it when he does."

"I'm just going to stay awake for a little while longer," he reassured her.

Mrs Hudson nodded, not fooled for a minute and kissed his cheek before leaving the flat.

John sighed and looked back at the sofa and its occupant. Sherlock was still sound asleep. He took the soup to the kitchen and poured it into a pan to warm for when Sherlock woke. He went back to the main room and slumped into his armchair.

The sounds of the flat filled his ears. The icebox hummed in the kitchen. The walls creaked as winds blew outside. John turned his head. Mary had often got cold in the flat, as her son and husband both had hotter natures. She used the blanket they lay on the armchair he was sitting in. It still smelled like her.

John's eyes shot open at a creak. It was much darker in the flat and John belatedly realised just how tired he had been.

Sherlock stood, leaning against the table. His limps visibly shook and John wasn't certain if it was the shadows or if the blood really had drained from the man's face.

"Sherlock," John said, voice soft.

"I'll be gone soon," he said, voice as firm as he could make it. He failed.

"No," John sat up, rubbing his face with his hand for a moment. "Sherlock, stay. For now at least."

The dark haired man stubbornly shook his head. "It's—"

"Sherlock," John stood, his exhaustion making him more irritated than he would normally be. He pushed at Sherlock's shoulder and, though he didn't push hard, the man nearly sprawled over the table. John pressed his lips together and helped steady him. He'd expected that to happen. "You're malnourished and dehydrated. You passed out. So sit down and shut up."

John gave him no time to argue, instead gently, but firmly, guiding him back on to the sofa. John knew it was much too easy. "How long has it been sine you last ate?"

Sherlock looked away and refused to answer. John sighed, back popping as he straightened. He went back to the kitchen and started warming the soup. He looked back into the living room. "Don't think for one second that if you run I won't catch you and carry you back up here."

Sherlock's smile was wan. He looked around the room, obviously uncomfortable with the changes. No doubt he knew when and why each change had occurred.

"Why are you back, Sherlock?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock stared down at his hands. "I heard about your wife. I had also heard whispers of the last man in Moriarty's network being in London at the time and none since."

John bit his cheek and turned away, checking the soup. Finding that it was hot once more, he poured some in a mug and returned to the main room. He sat down beside Sherlock, placing the cup in his shaking hands.

"Don't drink too quickly," he said softly. "Your stomach might not be able to handle much more."

Sherlock nodded and sipped. Despite the tremors that shook his frame, it was the stillest John had ever seen him.

"Your man didn't kill Mary," John said, leaning his head back and staring at the ceiling. "A few months ago, we received news that her ex-husband had been killed in prison. We never heard from his family, until Mary's death. The police asked what people saw and they identified her killer."

"But something went wrong," Sherlock said solemnly.

John nodded. "It was her ex-husband's brother, Edwin Monohan. They're looking for him, but they haven't had any luck as of yet. And they won't."

"The Monohan family?" Sherlock nodded, understanding. "Yes, too many people on the police force are paid off or incompetent."

"Sherlock," John chided and, for a moment, it felt like before. But he looked at the closed door to the bedroom and couldn't forget the little boy who had cried himself to sleep.

"I'm a father now, Sherlock," John whispered. "He needs me. It can't go back to the way it was."

"I know," Sherlock replied lowly. He pointedly didn't look at John.

* * *

Well, that's it for another week. I have a lot of work I have to get started on so I must go. Remember to leave a comment! It helps me try to make this story even better!

Though as a side note, I recently wrote a Supernatural fic that I'm unsure about posting on here. It's basically just Destiel pwp. I need someone's thoughts.


	16. Chapter 16

Just wanted to say thanks for all the people who've read this far!

* * *

Chapter Six

John and Sherlock sat together on the sofa, neither speaking. When Sherlock finished his soup, he leaned forward to place it on the coffee table.

His dirty and threadbare shirt hung from his frame. His hands, raw and red, still trembled. John wondered if it was psychosomatic like his had been.

"Have you taken care of yourself at all?"

Sherlock slumped back. "I had more important things to dwell on."

"Doesn't mean a thing," John said flatly. "If you believe that mission was more important than your life, than you're an idiot."

"It wasn't the mission," Sherlock said quietly. "It was the lives of everyone close to me. Any one of you is worth my life."

"Bullshit," John deadpanned. 'This isn't you. You're not humble. You're arrogant, headstrong, and bloody irritating at times. We may be important to you, but don't let us be the reason you run yourself into the ground. We lost you once, don't make me lose you again."

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply when John heard the door to the bedroom crack open. He turned his head to see it. "Joe?" The door cracked open further and he could see the boy, tears streaming down his face. "Come here," he called, arms opening wide. Joe ran forward and curled himself in John's lap, wrapped tight in the man's arms. "Nightmare?" he asked. The head tucked between his neck and shoulder nodded. "It's okay," he whispered. "I'm here."

He gently rocked back and forth, quieting the boy. Sherlock sat beside him stiffly. Joe, exhausted, fell back to sleep fairly quickly. John storked his soft curls, still comforting him.

"Do you enjoy being a father?"

John glanced at Sherlock. He watched them, gaze never as intent as it had once been.

"It was hard at first," John replied, keeping his voice soft, so as not to disturb Joe. "I didn't have much experience with kids. Mary took care of that. About a month after they moved in, she locked Joe and me up here and spent the night with Mrs Hudson. She would do that every once in a while. Joe and I got comfortable with each other during those nights," John paused, unsure of how to continue. "It's as hard as I thought it would be, but there are rewards."

"Like what?"

John smiled. "It's been a while, but this child has the most beautiful smile. Despite what he was born into, and his life since, he has such a pure innocence."

John kissed Joe's forehead an leaned back. Sherlock watched them still. He looked confused and thoughtful, like John and Joe were the most complicated puzzle he had ever seen.

"Sherlock," John whispered, staring down at the dark head of hair resting on his shoulder. "I missed having you around. But I don't think we can be like that again. Joe has to be my priority."

Sherlock nodded. "I understand."

John nodded and sat up. "I'm going to get him back to bed," he said. "Good night, Sherlock."

"Good night," the man murmured as John strained to stand up and went back to the bedroom. He shut the door behind him and felt his shoulders relax. John eased the boy in his arms down to the bed and covered him. Joe curled around the pillow that his mother had used.

John straightened up and crossed the room to get his pyjamas. He changed and fell into bed. It wasn't long before he fell into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

John's eyes snapped open when he heard footsteps on the stairs. He slid out of bed and silently crept to the door, taking his gun from its drawer on the way. He winced as he chambered a round and slowly opened the door, pistol aimed at the ground.

The footsteps stopped at the door. John trained the gun on the side of the door that the person would come through.

"You can put your gun down, John," Mycroft said as he pushed the door open. He carried his ever present umbrella and a folded newspaper. John lowered his firearm and removed the bullet from the chamber. "Sherlock, you knew it was me. Why didn't you tell him to stand down?"

"It's five in the morning, brother," Sherlock said. John looked at him to see him half-huddled under the blanket he had used. His hair was ruffled from sleeping. "I didn't think he'd listen." (John silently agreed.)

Mycroft handed John the paper he held and lowered himself into a chair. "Page three," he said. "I thought that the two of you might want to be some of the first to know."

John turned a lamp on and opened the newspaper. Staring up at him from page three was a mug shot of Edwin Monohan. John glanced up at Mycroft and back down.

The small article underneath the picture told of the man's body being found in an alleyway the night before. He had been killed by one bullet to his forehead. John thrust the paper at Sherlock, who flattened the creases John had made.

"What's going on?" John asked.

"It's Moran," Sherlock told him flatly.

"Why would the man you're after kill my wife's murderer?"

"Moran was working with him. Presumably, to tie up loose ends, he killed him," Mycroft explained.

"You knew about this?" John grit out. "Why didn't you help us?!"

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably. "We didn't even know he was in London. There'd been sightings in Prague that are now being proven false. We didn't know for sure that Moran was involved until Mrs Monohan contacted us. She's lost both her sons and her husband's dying. She's supposedly had a change of heart and informed us of all she could, including her elder son's involvement with a man fitting Moran's description."

"He's dropped of the grid again, correct?" Sherlock asked, folding the paper neatly.

"Yes," Mycroft said. "As he has several times before."

Sherlock stood, wobbling for only a moment before he strode to the window. "Mycroft, leave, you're disrupting my thoughts. John, where is my violin?"

Mycroft, surprisingly left without any snark. John returned to his room and locked his gun away. Joe slept on, oblivious to the discussion that had taken place in just the next room. He stroked the boy's curls for a moment before walking over to his closet. On the very top shelf, with a fine layer of dust, lay Sherlock's violin case. With it in hand, John returned to the main room.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow as John gave it to him. He laid it gently on the table beside him and opened the case. He stared down for several moments. "John," he finally said softly. "Come here."

John took the few steps that took him to the man's side. He looked down at the case and up at Sherlock and froze. Woodenly, he looked back down at the case.

Sitting atop the polished instrument was a stack of letters tied together with a string. On top, in Mary's handwriting, was John's name.

John reached in with a shaking hand and took the letters. He slid them from the string binding them and flipped through them from the bottom. Each was addressed to Joe at a certain age or event. Tears formed in his eyes as he realized these letters would keep him involved in Joe's life long after he became an adult. The top two letters were to him and Sherlock. John felt like he had been punched in the stomach as he gave Sherlock the letter and opened his own.

_Dear John,_

_I know it's morbid to write these, but it's best to be prepared. If you're reading this, I've passed on and Sherlock's returned._

_Do not blame yourself for my death. I knew from the moment that we heard that Charles had been killed that I would not be long for this world. Joe needs you more so now than ever. No doubt my parents have told you that they want him. I love my parents and I want them to know Joe, but you are the one he needs. And, I believe, you might need him, too._

_Now, I've no doubt at all that you're angry at me and feel that I've betrayed you for knowing that Sherlock Holmes was alive. I did know that before we were married. I couldn't tell you, John. You were in danger. We've become close friends and I couldn't imagine losing you, even then._

_I've kept Sherlock's violin in shape, waiting for his return, because I knew that one day he would come home to you. You're angry at him, I know, even though you've probably heard why. So I'll offer this advice: be angry for a little while, but forgive him soon. Life is short and you've both given up too much._

_Joe will be home soon, so I'll finish this letter. Enclosed are several letters that I hope you will give my son when it is time. Tell him that I love him and would give anything to be with him again._

_John, thank you so much. You can never be repaid for all that you have done for us. I wish our circumstances could have been different because I have to qualms to say that it would have been so easy to fall in love with you. Take care of yourself and Joe. I do love you, John._

_Mary Morstan _

John looked up from the paper and wiped his cheeks free of tears. He carefully folded the letter once more and tied all the papers together again.

Sherlock was either still reading or simply staring at his own letter. John felt a lump rise in his throat as he watched the man.

He stood an walked back to the bedroom. He stopped at the door. "Goodnight, Sherlock." He shut the door behind him and tucked the letters in the same drawer as his gun.

John had already forgiven Sherlock. He couldn't stay angry at him, especially considering his reasoning for leaving. He believed that Mary had been right when she had once said that Sherlock meant the world to him.

He lay down once more, Joe cuddling to his side, still asleep. He closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to claim him as well.

Several minutes later, a melancholy note rang through the flat, followed by others, forming a tune John had never heard before. The song lulled him to sleep.

* * *

Well, once again, that is it for this week. Can I just say that it was awfully nerve wrecking to write that letter in the middle of one of my classes?! I was so afraid that my professor would look down, read part of it, and think I was suicidal!

I have one more chapter completely written out and several planned after it, but my focus has been on schoolwork and another story that is mostly written. It'll soon be out of my system and I can return to getting chapters for this out. I hope to have at least another finished by the time next Wednesday rolls around. So, anyways, drop a line and tell me how I'm doing!


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter Seven.

John pulled the blankets over his head when the sun shone through the curtains. His head was pounding. A kick to his knee finally finished the sun's work and woke him completely. He sat up, eyes bleary and rubbed them until they were clear.

Joe slept on beside him, limbs moving restlessly. John stroked his curls, calming him, before he stood from the bed.

He quietly padded into the kitchen and put the water on to boil. He looked into the living room as he rubbed a hand through his hair.

Sherlock lay stretched out on the sofa. His back was tucked tight into the back of the sofa. John stepped closer, feet silent on the floor. The sleeping man's face was haggard and too thin. He wore the clothes that Mycroft had dropped off that first day. They were clean, but draped over his frame with far too much fabric. His hair stuck out at odd angles and his eyes moved constantly behind their lids.

John went back and made his tea. The flat was peaceful, the sounds from the street outside quiet. Mrs Hudson moved around in the flat below. He breathed in the steam from his tea, thankful for the moment of rest.

After he finished his cup, he put it down in the sink and began looking through the cupboards to see what food they had. He hadn't been shopping for several days an they were running low on several items that they needed.

John shut the last cupboard and went back to his bedroom. He took clothes from his drawers and shut the door to the bathroom behind him. John started the water and stripped before stepping in. The water struck his body like thousands of burning needles, but he soon got used to the temperature. His muscles began to relax and his headache eased. He went about his daily shower routine and was quickly washed, dried, shaved, and dressed. He opened the door to see that Joe was sitting on the bed, completely dressed minus his coat and shoes.

"You want to go shopping with me?" John asked and the child nodded, pushing himself off the bed and hugging the man's waist. "Good morning to you, too."

Joe let go except for a hand fisted at John's side. They quietly left the flat with Sherlock still asleep. John watched the child as they shut the door behind them. Joe pointedly didn't look down one side of the street and waited for John to lock the door. John put his hand on Joe's shoulder and they began walking. The way they took would have them traveling more, but, like Mary had said, anything for Joe.

When they reached the supermarket, they shopped quietly. John asked Joe several times about whether he wanted certain items and the boy either nodded or shook his head. After he paid for the groceries, John got a taxi to take them home. It left them off close to the door and John shuffled the bags till he could unlock the door and let them in. They carried the bags upstairs and into the kitchen.

As John began to unpack the shopping bags a throat cleared in the main room. They turned to see who was there.

George Morstan stood near the doorway, straight backed and superior. He held a newspaper in his tight fist.

"I knew that you had had questionable," he threw a look back at the couch where Sherlock was sitting, "relations, Mr Watson, but I didn't know that you would allow them near an impressionable child."

Joe hid behind John as the man grew visibly angry. "Excuse me?" he bit out.

George tossed the paper at him. John slowly bent down and took it from the floor. As he unfolded it he saw the headline announcing Sherlock's return.

"When we saw that this morning, we knew that you would let him near our grandson," George said, voice hard. "I will not stand for it. Either you make this man leave or Helen and I will take Joe with us."

"Do not give me ultimatums," John growled. "I am a doctor and he is my patient—"

"Then send him to a hospital!"

"He is also my friend!" John spoke louder. "Sherlock is not a danger to Joe."

"I will be the judge of that," George said lowly.

"Boys!" John turned to see Mrs Hudson standing in the doorway to the landing. "You will be civilized and lower your voices. And you will not argue in front of Joe!"

John glanced down to where Joe was hiding his face in John's clothes. "I'm sorry, bud," he whispered. The little head bobbed in a nod.

"Now, if you two can act like adults, I will take Joe downstairs with me," Mrs Hudson said. Joe looked up at her, then John. When the man nodded, Joe followed the older woman.

"Can I go with you?"

They all turned to where Helen Moran stood in front of the seat she had been sitting in. "He's our grandson, George," she told her husband. "I don't want him to be scared of us."

"I think that would be a wonderful idea, Mrs Morstan," Mrs Hudson nodded. The two women and child left the three men upstairs.

"Would you like to sit down?" John asked tightly.

George sat down rigidly in the seat that his wife had vacated.

"I don't approve of this man living with Joe," he repeated. "I want my grandson away from danger."

"This is the safest place for him to be," Sherlock finally spoke up. "John is trained as both a soldier and a doctor. My brother has no doubt set several people to watch the building as well."

"And what does your brother do?" George sneered.

"He is the British government," Sherlock said blandly.

George sent John a suspicious glance, but he just shrugged.

"Anyone approaching the building would be intercepted," John said.

The edges of George's lips turned white. "Joe is safer in India. He could start fresh, away from the memories of this place."

"Have you considered that Joe might want to stay?" John asked. "He has friends at his school who are already worried about him. We've got an appointment scheduled with a therapist for him. A teacher has agreed to tutor him until he can return to school. Would relocating really be such a good idea? Not all of his memories of here are bad and he needs to be able to recall the good memories of Mary, or he'll only know how she died."

George stood and glared down at them. "Joe is the only family Helen and I have left. If you do not let him go with us when we return to India, we will file for custody."

The slam of the door echoed through the flat. John deflated, suddenly weary. He scrubbed a hand across his face.

"I don't know what to do," he confided.

* * *

And that's all for now! I might be posting two other things today or tomorrow! So you might hear from me again! Don't forget to comment! I need the feedback!


	18. Chapter 18

I'm back again! I'm sorry if people have started to leave this story. I know it's a little depressing (understatement!). I just don't know how to write such a sad topic as a child losing their mother without it lasting for a while. Or what's discussed in this one. Good news! Healing begins in this chapter!

* * *

Chapter Eight

John had trouble sleeping for days after Joe's grandparents had stopped by 221B. He began to consider taking sleeping pills, but, every time he was awoken by one of Joe's nightmares, he knew he couldn't.

He'd only just gotten to sleep when a small hand shook him back to wakefulness. He opened his eyes to see Joe sitting up beside him. The boy pointed to the door.

It took a few moments for his sleep fogged mind to recognize the sound of water running. He slid out of the bed, knees popping. "I'll go check."

Joe nodded and lay back down, quickly falling asleep. John smiled. Progress.

He quietly left the room and peered into the rest of the flat. The sofa was empty. The sound of the water came from the kitchen sink. He looked to see a tall figure standing there.

"Sherlock?"

The man turned to John with wide eyes. They were glazed over. His sleeves were pushed haphazardly past his elbows. His hands and arms, all the way up to his sleeves, were soaked and red.

"What's wrong, Sherlock?" he asked gently, trying to soothe him.

"My hands," he whispered, glancing down.

John bit his lip, keeping his swears to himself. He had an idea of what was going on in Sherlock's min. He kept his body language open as he slowly approached him. "Sherlock, why don't we dry your hands and go sit down?"

"John," Sherlock whispered, body slumping back against the counter. John took the dishtowel from the countertop and carefully took one of Sherlock's hands. He patted the skin down, taking inventory. Sherlock's skin was hot to the touch and raw. The skin around his nails had been scrubbed so hard that it had drawn blood.

"Come on," John said gently, leading him back to the couch, towel still wrapped around the man's hands.

"Was it a nightmare?"

Sherlock drew in a shaky breath. "I'm not a child, John."

He raised a brow. "Do you remember what I was like when I first moved in?"

Sherlock looked down into his lap. He knew all about the night terrors that had plagued John then. He could probably guess at a few of the newer ones.

John waited, still cradling Sherlock's swaddled hands between his own. Sherlock had seemed to have forgotten about them as his eyes grew haunted once more. He opened his mouth a few times, but nothing came out. He swallowed and began to force words out.

"I had not known that it would affect me so greatly. I have worked with death for so long…I thought it would be okay."

"Who was your first?" John asked.

Sherlock looked up at him desperately. John shook his head. He needed to speak. Sherlock looked away again. "After I left London, I went to Denmark. He…he was an older man, late sixties. He was dying anyway, but he was an immediate threat. I tried to shoot him in an alley and make it look like a mugging, but the gun misfired. I knew that he couldn't leave the alley. So I stabbed him. I watched him die inches from me and I couldn't not feel anything."

"Did you do anything after?"

Sherlock absently nodded. "I took the knife and wiped my prints off before tossing it in the sewer. I went back to the hotel room I had and scrubbed his blood off. I think I might have nearly thrown up."

John wrapped an arm around his friend's trembling shoulders. "The first time I killed someone was in Afghanistan. I was treating a local child while my squad got supplied. I was only away from them for a few minutes and I had just finished and looked at the child's face. She's seen a man with a gun come up behind me. I didn't hesitate and shot him. He was going to kill the girl and me and, though I knew that it was us or him, I still puked more than once that day. I dreamed about it and what could have happened for weeks.

"You're human, Sherlock. I'd worry if you didn't feel anything after it. I…couldn't be there for you before, but I can now. You're not alone anymore."

Sherlock's body collapsed against the back of the couch. "How do I forget?"

John squeezed his shoulder. "You can't. You learn to live through it every day of your life and try to remember better times."

"There's so much blood, John," he whispered brokenly. "I don't know if I could remember anything good after that."

John opened his mouth to reply (even though he still did not know what to say) when his bedroom door opened. Joe walked in, rubbing his eye with a fist. He sleepily crawled up onto the couch. John opened his arm not around Sherlock so the boy could sit in his lap. But Joe curled himself in Sherlock's, tucking his hand around a fistful of the loose fabric of Sherlock's shirt. John smiled.

"Then make new memories."

Sherlock glanced up at him and back down. "John, what…what do I do?"

"Put your arm around him and relax," John whispered. "I think he's trying to make you feel better."

Joe glanced up at him with a sleepy smile.

John released Sherlock's hands. They'd quit bleeding, though they still looked painful. He put an arm around the boy and left it there. John pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. Sherlock looked immensely uncomfortable.

They were all lulled to sleep by the flat's creaks and groans, the only sound other than their breathing.

* * *

I'm sorry that it's so short and late. Good news is that this is my only immediate project besides school. I start writing the next chapter tomorrow! Don't forget to leave a comment! I need the feedback!


End file.
